


The Witch of Roanoke Ridge

by barbarosabee



Series: Wander the Fires [2]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Arthur Morgan and his trusty steed Calliope, Blood, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Some Supernatural Elements, Whump, some horror elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-08
Updated: 2019-04-19
Packaged: 2020-01-06 17:50:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 22,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18393371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/barbarosabee/pseuds/barbarosabee
Summary: Arthur doesn't believe the claims on the bounty poster, but $500 isn't something he can turn down. And because nothing in his life is simple, it turns into more than just a bounty hunt.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Y'all I love how goddamn creepy this entire area is in the game, and I feel like there was a bit of a missed opportunity to add some horror in here (more than what's supplied by the Murphree Brood, at least). Like, supernatural horror stuff. So this is very self-indulgent, once again, but that's what's fun about writing fanfic, right?

He found himself stifled once again in the close heat of Saint Denis. He hated it, really, worse’n the constant goddamn snow of the Grizzlies. The swamp air made everything stick to him, his poor horse sweaty and heaving after the shortest trips. Blood clung tacky between his fingers from the buck he’d skinned just outside Rhodes. He wanted nothing more than a good meal and a long bath after four days on the road. He didn’t have much to bring back to camp, either. No sense hurrying.

Arthur meandered through the near-empty streets. It was raining when he first crossed the polluted marsh water at the southern edge of the city, and though it had stopped people seemed reluctant to come outside. Better that way, Calliope still wasn’t used to the bustle of a city and spooked whenever a cart got too close.

She skittered to the side and Arthur apologized to the wagon driver as he passed.

“Easy there, girl, you’re alright.”

Calliope snorted and stomped a hoof, but Arthur felt her breathing slow against his knees.

He stopped in front of the nicer saloon and tucked Calliope off the main road, made sure to brush her down and give her a few treats before heading inside. Didn’t have anywhere better to be, at this point. No leads, no friends in the city. Just heat and mud and gators and those creepy bastards with machetes.

Calliope shoved her nose between Arthur’s coat and his satchel. He scratched between her eyes and held out one last sugar cube and hitched her lead to the post.

 

  
He’d lost track of time worse’n he’d lost his money at that damn poker table. Close to midnight when he finally threw his cards down and called it a night. The other men gave him good natured jibes as he stalked out of the saloon.

Calliope wickering to him was a welcome interruption.

“Ah, I’m sorry girl,” he murmured to her as he absently pet her neck. Wondered if he should head back out and try to hunt some gators before tucking tail and returning to camp. Gone a week and hadn’t even drummed up any good leads. . . .

The ground wobbled beneath Arthur. Right, he’d been drinking—probably why he’d lost so bad. He tried to count what was left of his stack of cash but his fingers fumbled the bills, crumpled them. He huffed and apologized to Calliope once again before conceding to rent a room for the night.

 

\- 0 - 0 - 0 -

 

The thick heat had chased the rain away sometime before Arthur awoke. He shoved his jacket into his saddlebag while Calliope munched on her morning beets and carrots. Hangover wasn’t doing him any favors, and he muttered curses at the sun the entire time he rode the streets at a slow trot. Decided to cut his losses and just head back to camp. Maybe someone else had something they needed some muscle for, and Dutch would forgive his absence.

Arthur swiped a hand down his face, scratched his overgrown beard. Figured he could stop at the barber, weren’t far from the saloon.Calliope snorted as a one-horse cart stopped near them to wait for the streetcar to pass. Arthur spurred her for the barber, absorbed the chatter around him.

“. . . .real nasty business out there.”

“A witch, though? Really?”

“Saw the poster at the police station when I was unloading the deliveries. Five-hundred, and they want her alive!”

Arthur located the men and hopped from Calliope. “ ‘Scuse me, gentlemen, you say somethin’ ‘bout a bounty?”

  


Arthur shook his head and removed the poster from the wall. “This serious? ‘The Witch of Roanoke Ridge?”

 

**WANTED**

__________________

THE WITCH OF ROANOKE RIDGE

For the crimes of Witchcraft, Animal Sacrifice,

Theft, Conspiring With The Devil, Kidnapping and Murder

Last seen West of Annesburg in Roanoke Ridge.

ARMED AND DANGEROUS.

__________________

**$500. WANTED ALIVE FOR QUESTIONING**

 

The lawman sat forward. “Probably want to put that one back, mister. No one’s come back alive. Couple of federal marshals came by last week convinced they could get her. Found their bodies strung up in the middle of Annesburg. ” The deputy turned the page in his newspaper. “Bunch’a unholy symbols carved into ‘em, right mess it’s turned out to be. Lot of folks real scared up at the mine.”

 _Ghosts, vampires,_ and _witches?_ “You seem to have a lot of unnatural problems around here, mister.”

The lawman shrugged. “Had a few kids come in talking about weird lights and strange creatures in the woods west of Van Horn, if you’re interested. Poster hasn’t been updated yet.”

Arthur folded the poster and stuffed it in his satchel. He tipped his hat at the lawman as he exited back into the persistent evening heat. $500 would more than make up for his prolonged absence. Arthur scratched at his face again and tipped his had at the lawman. He went back to his paper.

“Tried to warn you, sir.”

  
  


He never liked the area around Saint Denis. Didn’t care for the entire state of Lemoyne, really. Too hot and full of racists. And gators. The _goddamn gators_. Even Calliope had a hard time around them. Faced down a bear just the week before like it weren’t nothing, but soon as she heard that low reptilian hiss, she’d shoot away, Arthur forgotten in her panic.

Arthur rode in sight of the Lannahechee River, enjoyed the cooler air that blew from it. The sun warmed his back and he stuffed his jacket into a saddlebag. Calliope was just as pleased to be away from the swamp and heading back into fresh mountain air. They passed through Van Horn without incident, this time. Calliope tossed her head, stepped high. The smell of dead fish was thick in the air. Arthur wrinkled his nose, decided it would be better to spend the night in Annesburg, hell maybe even just camp.

Pushed on a few hours beyond dusk, pitched his tent at the crest of one of the many steep hills of Roanoke Ridge. Studied the bounty poster while he waited for the rabbit he’d shot to finish cooking through. Wondered what the law considered ‘witchcraft,’ but with a bounty that high she must’ve done at least a few awful things.

The rabbit sizzled and popped on the cooking grate. Arthur stabbed his knife into it and ate in big chunks. Calliope nosed her way into his lap, looking for his satchel. She hadn’t yet figured out he was keeping the peppermints in the space between his boots and his half-chaps.

Arthur wiped his knife on his pants and crawled back into the tent. An owl glided over the half-moon.

The wind came from nowhere, shook the tent and rattled the trees. A familiar uneasy feeling settled between his shoulders. Cold even through the bedroll, the blanket, his jacket. Voices, far off, something like singing, something like laughter. Like they came from just out of sight and farther off, lurked in the corners of his eyes. Felt the chill tickle of fingers just behind his ears.

Arthur squeezed his eyes shut and hunched into his jacket. Calliope made a concerned noise and shoved her way into the tent, dislodged some of the stakes holding down one side and flopped with her back against Arthur. Knocked the support pole out and the canvas crashed down around them.

It wasn’t the first time this had happened. Arthur didn’t laugh, this time; at least Calliope didn’t thrash around and kick him, _again_. The munitions wagon was starting to sport hoof-shaped dents Arthur did his best to hide.

Calliope patiently waited for Arthur to untangle her. He felt eyes on his back. Shuddered. The wind screamed around them with promises of a storm and something else.

Thought he saw a flash of pale skin dart between the trees. The fire sputtered and died. Calliope was back on her feet, not a care in the world.

Arthur sat on the mess of his tent and pulled his knees up to his chest and didn’t sleep.

 

\- 0 - 0 - 0 -

 

He had to cut off the main path in order to reach the area “The Witch” was last seen. The underbrush came almost up to Arthur’s knees where he sat on Calliope, and the trees grew close enough she almost didn’t fit between them. After what felt like hours, but couldn’t have been since the sun had hardly moved, the trees opened up and he could see what may have once been a path up to a homestead. The cabin didn’t look fit to live in. Vines covered most of it, blocked out the windows. Holes gaped in the sagging roof.

Calliope pulled on her reins as they waded through the brush. She’d been uppity since the city, the wagons and the crowds always making her nervous. Usually she settled once they were back in the open, but she had been nervous ever since they started the steep climb up the Ridge.

The wind picked up again and Arthur swore he heard voices carried on it. Refused to look around for a pale face with no eyes.

He dismounted Calliope just outside the circle of broken-down fence. She was nervous enough he actually hitched her to the mouldering wood. She was not shy about her displeasure, and nipped at his coat as he moved away.

“Hush now, girl.” He held a peppermint out to her. Calliope just stared at him, unblinking, not even acknowledging the treat. After a long, long moment, she huffed and swept the sweet from his palm. Arthur pet along her blaze, and turned back to the cabin.

He figured some of the claims on the poster were exaggerated, ‘specially this far south. He’d seen plenty of things folk were quick to call _witchcraft_ just cuz they didn’t understand how it worked. Least the murder was confirmed by the bodies of the marshals; that by itself should’ve been enough to land this “witch” with a high bounty.

Arthur paused just in front of the sunken porch. The poster didn’t have a name, or even a sketch. Weren’t sure where to start. The woods around him seemed to hold its breath as he put a hand on the door, ready to shoulder it open.

It was dark inside, darker than it made sense to be with the holes in the roof. A familiar, endless void and Arthur’s heart immediately started racing. Arthur fully expected to find it empty, run down as it was, maybe some signs someone had spent a night or two there, long enough to murder and string up two federal marshals.

He eased the door more open and squinted into the black. It smelled of damp moss and woodsmoke and something like the bitter tang of gunpowder, but different. Arthur held his breath, strained to make out any sound, anything, rats, someone hiding way back in a corner.

Inched forward. One foot slid along the wood floor. A loose board creaked.

A flash in the dark, near enough he should’ve known someone was there. _Stupid, Morgan_. Arthur had enough time to register the look of confusion on the woman’s face before her knife pierced him and his world went dark.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please mind the warnings attached to this fic. Originally had this set as Teen and up but bumped it to Mature because of this chapter.

He startled awake when something rough and cold slapped against his forehead.

“Sorry! Sorry, I meant to be gentler!”

Arthur cracked one eye open. It was not The Witch next to his bed. Assumed it couldn’t be, since it looked like a teenage boy. Arthur thought he ought to be concerned about this turn of events, but he found he hadn’t any strength for it. Felt like he’d fallen through ice and slogged his way back to the surface all night. A sharp line of fire settled low in his gut.

“My hands aren’t so good, sometimes, but Miss Ofelia doesn’t mind it any.”

“Who the hell’re you?” Arthur managed, voice dry and cracking.

“Oh, um, Sebastian. Here,” and the boy—had to be younger than Sean, Arthur thought briefly—filled a tin mug from a ceramic pitcher on the small nightstand. 

“Where’s The Witch?”

Sebastian blinked. “Miss Ofelia? Tending the horses. Packing. You know, I quite liked it here, and now we have to move again, thanks to you.” He didn’t say it with any anger, but he didn’t meet Arthur’s eyes.

“Just doin’ my job, kid.”

“You get paid to kidnap women?”

“That what she told you?”

“Well it’s what all the other men come here to do.”

“She’s got a bounty.”

“What’s a bounty?”

It was Arthur’s turn to blink, at a loss for words. How did this kid not know what a bounty was?  _ What the hell is going on _ .

The front door opened and a woman he could only assume was The Witch stomped in, scraping muck from her boots. Though with how things had gone so far, he could have intruded on some actually innocent people. Poster hadn’t said anything about a real name.

“Sebastian, what are you doing,” she said with a sigh, as if she had caught her child breaking the same rule for the hundredth time. He couldn’t be her child, though; the two were nothing alike, and she looked around Abigail’s age. Sebastian was pale and blonde where she was dark on dark and the shortest woman Arthur had ever seen.

“Felt like he had a fever, so I checked. Couldn’t find you anywhere.”

“Didn’t want to be found.” She dropped a bulging burlap sack onto the table and yanked it open. “Go do your job and keep the horses company. Feed this man’s mare and get her tack ready.”

“Can he really—”

“Do as you’re told!”

Sebastian scuttled away from the bed and out the door faster than Arthur thought appropriate. Sounded like a goat scrambling on the roof of a henhouse. 

“I can feel your disapproval. He’s a summon, he’s to do as he’s told.” The woman didn’t look at him as she spoke, focused on her bags.

Arthur hunched forward and did his best to ignore the deep,  _ deep _ throb in his gut. Rightly had no idea what was going on and was gonna start demanding answers. 

He shakily got to his feet. Stomach felt fit to split right open.

“I got no earthly idea what you’re talking about, but I would appreciate it if you would come with me, now.”

She still had her back to him. Arthur saw his gun belt and bandolier hanging off one bed post, coat on the other. He bit his lip as he quietly sidestepped to them and removed his pistol. Something in the back of his head told him he should be suspicious she’d left his weapons within easy reach, but his annoyance crowded it out.

The Witch turned to face him and scoffed. They stared, neither blinking. Arthur pressed a hand to his stomach without realizing it. Wet beneath his shirt.

The Witch started laughing. “Really, Mr. Morgan? You still want to bring me in for a silly bounty?”

His mind skipped over wondering how she knew his name. “$500 ain’t a silly amount of money where I come from.”

“$500, that’s all?” She laughed again, a high giggle. “I should sacrifice more virgins, shouldn’t I? Pfft, five hundred dollars…” she muttered the last to herself and went back to the burlap sack.

Arthur cocked the revolver. 

The Witch sighed.

Arthur was thrown back on the bed, head slamming into the wall. Arthur’s world titled and dimmed. The revolver slid along the shiny wood floor and landed at The Witch’s feet. She kicked it towards the hearth and slowly approached Arthur.

“I don’t  _ want _ to kill you, Mr. Morgan, you’ve a nice color around you.”

“The hell is that suppose to mean?” Arthur said through grit teeth, trying and failing to steady his breathing. He felt warmth soak his shirt.

“Mmm, I don’t think you would understand.” She got one knee up on the bed, slowly pulled her skirts out of the way, brought the other knee up to rest next to Arthur. He had nowhere to go as she placed a hand lightly over his face.

Arthur tried to bite her fingers. She slapped him without hesitation, fucking  _ hard _ , nails of her tiny hand catching across his cheek. Arthur’s head spun from the force of it. Pretty sure he’d never been slapped so hard in his life.

“Hold still, I don’t want you bleeding all over my things.” The Witch caged his hips with her knees, sat on his thighs. Ripped the bottom of his shirt open. Arthur kept his eyes on her face and not on the wound, wanted to be able to anticipate her moves. 

If Arthur saw her on the street, he would have mistaken her for a child. Round face, broad nose, wide-set doe’s eyes the color of burnt grass. Her hair looked a lot like Charles’ and Arthur wondered if she had a similar heritage. Not a single scar on her, far as he could tell. Clothes were clean and she had a floral smell about her he couldn’t place. Accent reminded him of Javier.

Arthur jerked as she threaded the first stitch through his skin. Decided to take a page out of Dutch’s book and try for an actual conversation. Usual tactics of punching his way out didn’t seem like a good option. “I been all over these parts and ain’t seen this place before.” 

“Well what kind of witch would I be if people could easily find me?” She didn’t look at him as she pulled another stitch through the gash. Weren’t too deep, felt like, but Arthur still hadn’t seen it for himself. Her hands were warm where they brushed his skin.

“I was expecting someone else, I’m sorry this is so deep.”

Arthur finally glanced down. Blanched. Should’ve felt a wound like that, gaping and open and able to see yellow globs of fat within it. Thought he saw the edges glowing, dark letters sliding around just beneath the skin.

“How come I ain’t dead?”

“Wouldn’t be a good witch if I couldn’t fix a little stab wound.”

Arthur swallowed again. Bile burned the back of his throat. “Sure don’t look fixed.”

“Yes, well.” She tugged harder on the next stitch. Arthur winced. “I fixed it as much as you let me, the rest is up to you.”

“What the hell is that suppose to mean?”

She tied off the last stitch and started wrapping a thick bandage around his torso. “Means what it means. You gonna thank me or what?”

“For what,  _ stabbin _ ’ me?”

The Witch stood, wiping her bloody hands on her black skirt. “For  _ not _ killing you, Mr. Morgan, you were trespassing.”

“You got a bounty on your head.”

She spoke without facing him. “Do I? I don’t get into town much. In my experience, no one cares sfor clever women who know more than them, especially not around here.” She sat at the table in the far corner of the one-room cabin, near the dying fire, and started fiddling with something he couldn’t see.

“Weren’t just a clever thing you did, fixing this.”

“Aye, no, that was magic.”

She finally turned to look at him. Arthur wished she hadn’t. Her eyes had changed, a deep dark rich yellow sunken into her face  _ down farther than the devil could reach and burning brighter than the sun _ . Her long hair shifted in a breeze he couldn’t feel. A long-limbed murky shape rose behind her.

Arthur swallowed loudly and used the last of his strength to scoot farther back on the bed, almost up the wall.

The Witch of Roanoke Ridge mouthed words he couldn’t understand, but he could hear them rattle around deep inside his skull. He didn’t want to look at her but he couldn’t look away, nailed in place like a cross.

He couldn’t breathe. His heart raced. The dark shape grew, swirled around her like a cloak. Her eyes shone brighter. She grinned, teeth sharp.

And then it was over, and he could see the beginnings of dawn poking through the thick curtains drawn over the windows. He took one more look at her; she still smiled, the darkness draped over her shoulder like a lover.

Arthur sucked in a weighty sob and lost consciousness.

\- 0 - 0 - 0 -

 

He came to much slower this time. Tight pressure just about everywhere, and he didn’t think he could move his arms. His face was mashed into something warm and firm, and when he took a deep inhale he realized he was on a horse.

His eyes wouldn’t focus immediately, but the mane looked right, and the pommel was familiar, so he was reasonably sure it was his horse.

Arthur tried to sit up and couldn’t move more than an inch. A frustrated grunt escaped him before he could stop it. Someone whistled nearby and Calliope stopped.

“Think you can sit up on your own?”

He cracked an eye open. The Witch. Behind her was thick, unfamiliar forest. He could probably figure out where he was if he had a wide view, but tied down on his horse as he was, he couldn’t see more than ten feet.

She snapped her fingers and the ropes around Arthur’s torso disappeared as if they had never been there. His legs were still tightly pressed to the saddle, unable to wiggle even an inch. His arms were tied behind his back and his shoulders ached fiercely. There was a small patch of blood smudged against the saddle.

“Thought you said you didn’t want to kill me.”

“And are you dead?”

“Na, but y’ain’t doing my wound any favors.”

The Witch hummed to herself. Arthur took a moment to look around. He couldn’t have been out for long, it still looked like they were in Roanoke Ridge, maybe farther north than he had traveled before. A steep hill cut off most of the view behind him. If he strained, he thought he could hear a river.

The Witch yanked him towards her to get a better look at his stomach. Felt real weird with how is legs stuck to the saddle as if they’d been tarred in place. She had to pull him down pretty far and strain up on her tiptoes just to reach. She peeled back his ruined shirt, stiff with day-old blood, and pressed around the wet bandages. She hummed as she inspected it. Arthur winced when she wasn’t looking.

She stepped back. “Your fault it’s not getting better, you’re fighting it. Might be getting infected. Bet they would take real good care of you back east though, wouldn’t they?”

Arthur met her eyes. He had seen more kindness in the eyes of an angry grizzly.

“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”

“I think you do, Mr. Morgan. $500 may be a lot to someone in your line of work, but a few thousand, to someone like me, for apprehending Dutch van der Linde? You got the short end of the deal coming out here for me.”

“Don’t know any Dutch.”

She snorted and let Arthur’s filthy shirt fall closed. “You do, Mr. Morgan, there’s no point lying to me.” She pat his knee and started back to her own tall horse. How the hell could she even ride that thing? Top of the woman’s head barely met Arthur’s chest. Sebastian was a few yards ahead of them on a big creamy draft loaded with bags. A thick mule was hitched to the draft, wood crates balanced to either side. 

The woman turned back to him, grin sharper than a wolf’s. Arthur’s blood turned to ice. “I  _ am _ a witch, after all.” She snapped her fingers and the ropes reappeared, slammed Arthur tight against the saddle the same way he’d been when he awoke. Couldn’t stifle his groan as the pommel rubbed into his wound. Calliope shifted beneath him, different than usual, didn’t feel like she were nervous.

The witch whistled and Calliope lurched forward. Arthur’s gut throbbed and he closed his eyes, breathed through his nose. Lost track of time.

He looked around when he felt the road dip. Regretted it immediately—the sideways view bobbed as Calliope obediently trot between The Witch and Sebastian. Made him immediately queasy. Sun was nearly set. Could definitely hear a river now.

The horses stopped.The ropes disappeared from Arthur’s legs and he toppled onto the ground before he knew what was happening. He did throw up, this time, was hauled away from the mess by the back of his shirt.

Arthur panted into The Witch’s face, loud. Made to spit on her but weak as he was it just landed on his own face. She remained impassive. “We’re stopping for the night.” She raised an arm and Arthur shot backwards, slammed into a tree. Ropes cinched tight around his torso, dug into his wound. Hands bound against the tree, legs straight out, all he could do was try to catch his breath and watch The Witch set up her camp. Watched the odd way Sebastian stumbled about. Something were off about the gangly boy but Arthur couldn’t place it.

Calliope stood obediently with the other horses. Arthur whistled. She lifted her head, but her dull eyes didn’t try to find him, and she went back to staring at the ground.

“The hell you do to my horse, witch?”

The Witch stood from the fire, hands on her hips. “Taught her her place. How do you stand such a wild beast?”

“You—”

Sebastian appeared in front of him and clamped a cold hand over his mouth. Arthur got his first good look at the boy. The air around him shifted, and Arthur was pretty sure he saw horns and black eyes with no white to them. He blinked and nothing more than a pale, thin, blonde boy stared back at him. Irises too wide, too green, like an unpracticed artist tried to draw someone from memory. Sebastian’s long fingers curled against Arthur’s jaw, crushing it almost, and he started to squirm.

The Witch stepped into view. “Just a little spell, she’ll be fine, if you cooperate. Mind you hold your tongue. I’m not one for insults.”

Sebastian’s hand tightened. Arthur whimpered.

“And stop calling me that. Name’s Ofelia. Away, Sebastian.”

The boy disappeared between one blink and the next. Ofelia knelt in front of Arthur.

“I’m going to torture you, Mr. Morgan, until I know where Dutch van der Linde is.” She pressed one hand against his wound, really  _ pressed _ , hard enough he felt some stitches pop and something shift beneath it. Arthur held back a scream, just barely. Ofelia manhandled his chin so he was forced to look at her; her other hand pulled back the bandages, worked a finger beneath the stitches and tugged until they tore deeper. He broke eye contact, panted through his nose. Ofelia yanked his chin until he looked at her. 

The wound was open again between the stitches. She pushed her finger in deeper, deeper than the wound had even looked the first time, wiggled it somewhere  _ deep _ and  _ wet _ . Arthur’s mind rejected the wrongness of it. Ofelia dug harder, squeezed his jaw until his mouth was open and he gulped in air.

_ I won’t stop until you’re screaming _ . Her mouth didn’t move when she said it but the words burned into Arthur hot as a summer day. She ripped the stitches clear out and worked in a second finger.

Breath harsh now, felt the twist of her fingers in his gut every time he breathed. She added a third and a fourth and stretched the wound until Arthur was screaming, loud enough it hurt is own ears and drowned out the ambient sounds of the forest around them.

“Do you know what hieromancy is, Mr. Morgan?” Ofelia slapped his cheeks to get his eyes to open again. His brain didn’t know how to interpret what was happening, didn’t  _ want _ to, and everything was just a grey haze of pain.

“It’s a type of divination, using entrails. Maybe yours will tell me where Mr. van der Linde is hiding?”

Some part of Arthur buried far back behind the pain was ashamed of the pathetic whines that left him. The Witch released Arthur’s face, grabbed an edge of the wound with each hand and stretched it. Skin and muscle and fat tore as blood puddled forth like a strong underground spring. The ropes held Arthur tight against the tree, couldn’t move an inch. A pressure on the back of his head, no visible source, forced it down for him to watch as Ofelia pulled out a handful of his intestines and held them up to the light of the moon. Ran them between her hands like she was coiling a length of rope.

Arthur watched, not really understanding. The Witch hummed to herself, nodded a few times.

Roughly shoved the entrails back in. Arthur felt the wet of his blood seeping into his pants, soaking the ground beneath him. Vision narrowed to Ofelia stuffing his guts back in through the wound. Once they were all back in, she put both hands on his stomach. Black letters slithered from her fingers and along the ragged edges. Glowed dim like the tip of a cigar. The skin pulled back together, slow as cold molasses. 

When it was finally done, the skin was perfect as it had been before, not a mark nor a wrinkle nor a hair. 

Arthur’s eyes were open, unseeing. Chest laboring under shallow panicky breaths. “Th-thought you we’re. We’re sorry it was s-so d-deep.” Ofelia pat his cheek until he looked at her. “That should about do it, Mr. Morgan, thank you.”

Arthur’s eyes rolled into the back of his head.


	3. Chapter 3

Arthur was woken by his head being slammed against the tree trunk. Almost sent him right back to unconscious.A weight settled on his legs. Arthur groaned and peeled a single eye open. The Witch had sat on his thighs, knees near his hips, skirts rucked up enough he could see wasn’t wear traditional bloomers. A shudder started at the base of Arthur’s spine and clawed up to his throat. “What are you doing.”

Ofelia ran a hand along the buttons of his shirt. “Was thinking about why I bothered to bring you all the way up here.” The finger wandered lower, stopped at his pants. Arthur held still as if she had a knife between his legs.

“Well, I have to use you for  _ something _ , now that I know where Mr. van der Linde is, and using you as a sacrifice seems like such a waste. . . .None of them want to accept my offerings, anymore.” Her finger dipped inside his pants. Arthur held his breath. 

Ofelia finally met his eyes. Wiggled on his lap. “Was thinking you could put a baby in me.”

“I what.”

Ofelia burst into laughter and swung off him. “Dios mio, gringo! You believe everything a witch says to you?” Ofelia stood. Arthur saw Sebastian tending to the horses behind her. The sky had barely started to lighten yet, but most of camp was torn down already.

Arthur’s lungs remembered they had a job to do, and he sucked in air fast, practically hyperventilating. “Rather you split me open again.”

Ofelia was in his face in an instant, finger to his lips. “I can do it again. I don’t  _ need  _ to, but I could do it again.Open you up, pull everything out, put it all back and do it again and again  _ and again _ , I’ve a lot more time to waste than you.” She swiped her finger along Arthur’s lips and he found he could no longer open them. Couldn’t squash the panic that clamped around his chest, breathing even faster. Ofelia’s high laugh cut through the panic, just for a second, and then Arthur’s vision dimmed again.

Must’ve been less than a minute before he felt himself pushed to his feet by a great force. Like a steer got right on his ass and was trying to knock him into the air. Arthur squeezed his eyes shut but could tell he was moving, feet dragging along the ground until he bumped into the round side of Calliope. She grunted but made no further noise, no more movement. Arthur opened his eyes just as the invisible force hoisted him into the saddle and the ropes held him in place once again. Sitting up, this time at least. He squirmed. Sebastian stood between the draft and the mule, obediently awaiting The Witch’s instructions.

The Witch stood at Arthur’s knee, grinning at him. She beckoned him towards her with a finger. The force shoved Arthur down, where she could finally reach. She brought out a smaller rope, pale and wove through with something gleaming silver, almost thin enough to be called a necklace, and started tying it around his neck.

“You don’t want to know what this one does.” She pat his cheek, tied the rope off in a bow. “Think Mr. van der Linde will cooperate if I bring him a nice present?”

Arthur hollered around whatever was keeping his mouth shut.

Tried to, at least, he thought he did. Instead of sound, his mouth and throat filled with some thick sludge, frigid and slimy and  _ wrong wrong wrong wrong  _ and his lungs spasmed, tried to eject it but nothing could pass through his sealed lips.

Ofelia cooed. The slime went away.

“It won’t  _ kill _ you, but it sure will feel like it. Don’t try to speak.” She produced a worn leather strip from somewhere in her skirts and tied it around Arthur’s eyes. Too tight, spots bursting behind his eyelids and an ache starting up immediately. Arthur may as well have been in the depths of a cave without an oil lamp, dark as it was now. The sounds of the forest around them were dimmed, like the animals were trying to avoid them. Nothing but the wind and far-off thunder.

The Witch whistled and Calliope started forward.

  
  
  


Arthur had no sense of time. Couldn’t focus on anything other than how it still felt like he was drowning. Terrified to make any kind of sound. Tried to find  _ anything _ to focus on. Had nothing. No pain to distract him, no wildlife to track. He could feel the ropes, felt they were tight, but they didn’t hurt they way they should. Stomach felt about as sore as if he’d just skipped breakfast. Not like some psychopath had played with his intestines. Lost in the darkness with his face going numb from the leather blindfold. The rope on his neck was warm, complete opposite of what the slime had done inside his throat. Close to hot enough to burn. 

Nothing to focus on but his thoughts.

Dutch wouldn’t really turn himself over to this witch, Arthur wasn’t worth sacrificing the whole gang. Soon as they saw Arthur tied up they’d probably start shooting—hopefully they would start shooting, end it before anyone had enough time to think anything through clearly. Arthur didn’t want to be seen trussed up like livestock being used for a some kind of proposal.

Maybe someone was out looking for Arthur. Arthur must be getting sloppy cuz  _ Bill _ had found him, one time, when he’d been out fishing for a week. Charles had taken to tracking him down when he was gone too long, ‘specially after Blackshear. Maybe he’d known exactly where Arthur was and just let him be. Bill had wanted to rob a coach and just  _ had _ to have Arthur along for it.

Arthur circled back around to Charles. Another day and he’d be getting concerned, and at the pace The Witch kept them to, they wouldn’t be anywhere near camp by then, maybe two days. Arthur had already taken his time meandering over to Saint Denis. People would start worrying, worried over him more than they needed to on account of how beat up he’d come back.

Calliope stumbled beneath him. Arthur had a dizzying moment where he was certain he would slide from the saddle despite the ropes. Rocks skittered under Calliope’s hooves and Arthur finally felt the ground sloping down. Calliope slid a few more times, always righted herself without a single complaint, and her silence was almost more unsettling than anything The Witch had said.

_ The hell you do to my horse _ .

“I told you already, nothing much. No need to fuss about it, Mr. Morgan.” The Witch spoke from somewhere in front of him. 

The rope around his neck tightened a fraction, burned harder. Arthur’s breath seared his nose as it picked up and he thought he felt blood fleck his lips. Calliope slipped again but kept sliding this time. Arthur’s stomach lurched. Dust stuck to his nose and he knew it was bleeding, now, could feel the grit stay there and get caught in the stubble around his mouth.

Calliope finally stopped, sides heaving between Arthur’s knees. One breath, two, and The Witch whistled to get her moving again. Arthur’s heart bounced between his lungs. More blood trickled from his nose, down his chin and onto his shirt. He was held rigidly upright by the ropes and he gave up trying to figure out where they were at this point. Shadowed by the trees as they were, he couldn’t feel the sun to guess the time. Could’ve been an hour, could’ve been twelve.

He felt the bulk of another horse to his left. A small hand brushed his shoulder.

“If I open your mouth, are you going to start screaming?”

Arthur kept frozen, made no indications about anything, tried to still even his thoughts.

Her fingers touched his lips again and his mouth sprung open. Arthur greedily pulled in air that tasted like the blood still painted on his lips.

“The cuerda stays, don’t do anything stupid.”

Arthur swallowed. It tasted disgusting, like blood poured into a spittoon and then boiled with piss. “No ma’am,” he rasped. Turned his head away from her and spit. Didn’t help at all.

She pat his knee. “There’s a good boy. You just rest now.”

 

\- 0 - 0 - 0 -

 

He may have slept. He had no idea. Hard to tell when he kept seeing things.

Knew the blindfold was still there, leather digging into the skin around his eyes and tangled in his hair. He  _ couldn’t _ be seeing anything, nothing was there, nothing—

The little girl had been following them for a while, though. Arthur never saw her face, just a thick curtain of long auburn hair that reached her waist. Dirty nightgown, barefooted, wings like a butterfly curling from her back. Arthur knew it couldn’t be real just the same he knew the sun rose and set, and yet there she was and he was  _ terrified _ . Terrified of what he’d see when she finally looked at him, knew she was just waiting for him to look away or move or even twitch and he just  _ knew she’d be right there ready to kill him _ .

Arthur blinked. Tried to blink, rolled his eyes beneath shut lids. The world titled in a bright flash with a sizzle just like Albert’s camera and the girl was gone. A dozen butterflies took her place. Sparkled like the rainbow coming off a waterfall. Arthur tracked their movement with his head until they disappeared high above him.

He wanted to bash his face into something. Couldn’t move an inch. Bound straight up and down. Calliope kept up her smooth canter beneath him.

Saw branches snap. Whipped his head around, the world slow to catch up to the movement.

Far out in the throbbing dark was a pale splindly figure covered in black marks. Far out enough Arthur couldn’t see they were the letters he knew to be there. Not far enough out that he couldn’t see the sightless eyes and the gaping hole for a mouth. Arthur had a single moment of clarity to remark the creature had no nose before he was screaming.

It happened faster than his brain could keep up. He was screaming and then he couldn’t breathe and then he was on the ground with someone straddling his thighs. Hand on either side of his head. Maybe someone was speaking but Arthur couldn’t tell past the thick slide of muck down his throat trying to kill him, locking up his lungs and strangling his heart. The hands on his head dug in, painful, drew blood, pressed  _ pressed pressed pressed _ until all the air left him and he wasn’t screaming anymore.  Someone was speaking to him but he couldn’t hear it, couldn’t hear anything, couldn’t see anything, couldn’t feel beyond the twin sensations of a burned neck and iced-over lungs.

Arthur’s head rocked to the side as it was slapped, then slapped again the other way. The world spun but sound returned, the first thing he heard was how harsh his breath came between chapped lips wet with more blood from his nose.

“What are you even screaming about!” The Witch shook him by the shoulders. “Quiet as a mice and then you’re screaming!”

“I—” Arthur wheezed, tried to cough. Bile at the back of his throat. His whole body jerked, trying to expel everything,  _ just get everything out _ , and he was rolled onto his side. Heaved like he was going to throw up, gagged on it. Nothing but bile and he spit weakly into the dirt. 

The Witch rolled him onto his back. Slapped him again. If she kept that up he’d be too stupid to answer any questions.

“Why were you screaming, pendejo?”

“Thought—thought I saw. . . .” Still couldn’t catch his breath. 

The Witch moved off his thighs. Two breaths, three, and Arthur was being thrown back on Calliope by that invisible bull.

They started forward. Arthur was dead to the world until something hauled him off Calliope and dumped him on the ground. Different, not covered in dry leaves but cool grass instead. Didn’t exactly narrow down where they had stopped, but it felt like they weren’t in the Ridge anymore. 

Thunder boomed close enough to shake Arthur deep into his chest. The wind picked up, flapped his shirt and ruffled his hair beneath the blindfold. 

Someone crouched in front of him. He jerked back when a wet cloth was pressed to his face.

“Sorry! I did it again, didn’t I, I’m sorry sir—”

“Sebastian! Stop apologizing and do your job!”

Arthur squeezed his eyes, hoped to alleviate some of the pain. Like someone had been pressing a fist against them all day. The cloth returned. Took a few moments for Arthur to realize Sebastian was just wiping the blood off.

The cloth was replaced by the mouth of a canteen. Sebastian awkwardly held Arthur’s head up and didn’t release him until the canteen was empty. Arthur sagged back into the ground but a spoon was pressed to his lips just as soon as he did.

“Miss Ofelia says you have to eat this.”

Arthur sniffed. Didn’t smell right, but no part of his brain could figure out  _ why _ . Just that he didn’t want to eat it. Seemed like she wanted to keep him alive, didn’t mean it would be  _ comfortable _ . Arthur knew you could do a lot to a man before he died.

Arthur pulled his lips between his teeth. The spoon nudged at them again.

“Please sir, Miss Ofelia said you have to eat this.”

Arthur turned his head away. Whatever was on the spoon smeared across his cheek instead. The spoon clattered into a tin cup.

Skirts rustled near him, and then The Witch dropped onto his chest with her entire weight. The breath was punch from Arthur and his mouth opened on instinct.

It didn’t taste as bad as some of the things he had experienced in the last day or so. Too sweet, bitter as burnt coffee, with a thickness to it like rotten milk. The Witch held his mouth shut and pinched his nose until he swallowed, gagging. It roiled his stomach but he felt too bulged, too heavy to throw back up again. He whimpered. The Witch stepped off him.

“Sleep well, Mr. Morgan.”

 

\- 0 - 0 - 0 -

 

His dreams wasted no time tormenting him. Blackness one moment, and that horrible creature the next, quick as blinking. Arthur knew he had to run from it—the long limbs chewed up the distance between them and then it was on him, on his back pinning every limb with one of its own. Head tucked against his neck  _ sniffing _ . Colder than plunging through a frozen river, so cold it burned  _ burned _ his throat as it cracked his jaw apart and crawled inside and stretched its limbs into his. Stood him up with jerky movements like an inexperienced puppeteer. Crashed Arthur around camp, knocked over the tents and chased after the screaming horses.

The creature ran them into the woods after Calliope. She shrieked, eyes rolled back to whites. Pounded the ground, kicked dirt into their face. Arthur swatted it away with a limb long broken and popped in all the wrong places and then they were upon her, tearing into her sides—

—and he was screaming again, and the rope around his neck tried to burn him alive.

The burning stopped in a second. Hands fluttered around his throat, tugged the rope, made some adjustments. The Witch sighed from where she was sat on his chest.

“You’ve gone a bit mad, Mr. Morgan. Oh, don’t look at me like it’s  _ my _ fault, this is far beyond what I bother doing. Something else’s touched you.” She pat his cheek.

Arthur was pushed to his feet by that now-familiar invisible force. Felt the blindfold still in place, but now he could see lights dancing out in front of him. Hopping around in a little circle like some lanterns had grown feet and decided to square dance. 

Maybe he  _ had _ lost his mind.

Back on Calliope again. Silent, docile Calliope who didn’t so much as snort or stamp her feet or demand a peppermint.

Arthur jerked in the saddle when he heard a wagon roll by somewhere above them. Near a road, then, near a town, hopefully. Would she really ride them into town like this, him bound and blindfolded with a goddamn bow tied around his neck?

“Sorry to disappoint, Mr. Morgan. No town for us. Just had to set down near the road last night. We’ll be going  _ this _ way now, if you would.”

Calliope jumped up into a trot. Arthur’s head bobbed painfully until he found his balance. The ropes didn’t feel so tight this time, but maybe he had just gotten used to it. Did his best to ignore the lights and the little creatures that bounded in and out of his vision. Maybe they had always been there whenever he closed his eyes.

Arthur thought he should be hungry, thirsty, have to relieve himself. His lips were dry and his stomach felt empty, but there was no hunger, no thirst. The canteen and the spoon of food last night should not be enough to keep a man his size sated. Pretty sure he should’ve pissed himself by now, too, but didn’t feel like that needed to happen either. What the hell was even going on here? 

How had everything gone  _ so _ far sideways?

Arthur focused on slowing his racing heart. Wasn’t doing himself any good dwelling on questions he couldn’t answer. Had to figure out a way out of here. Charles was good at tracking him but if Arthur could get away sooner. . . .

Strained to take in the environment. Still windy, not very warm, no sun on his back. Cloudy, then. Smelled like rain. Grass rustled all around them, trees to one side. So not in the middle of a forest but not out in the open plains, either. A lot closer to camp than the Ridge, he was fairly sure.

He gave the ropes on his hands a quick tug. The rope on his neck tugged back. No more of that, then. Arthur breathed deep and let his remaining senses feed him more information. Not much to smell past himself and the horses and the oncoming rain. More than the wind, he heard small animals skittering around them. Birds flapping ahead—geese. A single crow cawed, close, alarmed. Another crow answered. Arthur thought he heard Ofelia swear in front of him and the horses picked up speed, a choppy gallop. The sudden speed disoriented Arthur once more.

Paid attention to how the road felt. Not flat anymore. Sloping up, slow. Didn’t feel like they were out in the open anymore, either, more trees being shaken as the wind whipped into a true storm. The crows called out again but the sound was drifting away.

A bright sear of light, Arthur sure he saw it even through the blindfold. The thunder immediately after it covered up the sound of the massive tree cracking. 

Arthur felt it slam into the earth. Bit his tongue as it rattled his jaw. 

Calliope reared, screamed, and bolted, whatever spell she had been under broken. Another crack, another tree landing just behind them close enough to make Calliope stumble, but she got her feet beneath her easily.

The Witch screamed and for a second Arthur was taken back to Blackshear Butte and the creature trying to run him down. Calliope surged forward.

The ropes loosened the farther they got from The Witch. Arthur wiggled while trying to keep his balance. Got one hand loose and yanked the blindfold from his face.

Mistake. The light blinded him immediately and he cried out, threw the arm over his face. The ropes completely loosened and slid from around him and the saddle and Arthur didn’t have enough awareness or strength to stop them before they got tangled in Calliope’s legs.

She tripped and Arthur went flying head-first into a boulder, knocked out the second he hit it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fun fact there were some scientists who blindfolded sighted people for 4 days and basically everyone started hallucinating after 12 hours.


	4. Chapter 4

A broad weight on his chest, warm and comforting. Arthur lifted a hand without thinking and found Calliope’s cheek. She heaved a great sigh and nosed further into his shirt.

Arthur tried to open his eyes. Went slower this time. His brain finally caught up to him being awake and he realized rain was slapping into his face like it were fixing to drown him. Some storm this had turned out to be. The ground was wet and loose beneath him. Finally got his eyes open.

Calliope was stretched out next to him, head still on his chest. Arthur started to sit up and had to stop when his vision went black and the world flipped completely upside down. Eyes still closed, he felt around his head until his fingers connected with a bloody tender spot on his forehead close to his hairline. He hissed; the light touch made his whole head throb all over again. Bad concussion, then.

He could work with that. So long as he wasn’t tied to a saddle and blindfolded, he could make it back to camp.

Arthur went much slower this time as he sat up. Calliope moved her head from his chest but kept it close. Arthur put a hand on her neck to steady himself.

“You okay, girl?”

Calliope wuffed in his face and easily climbed to her feet. Arthur looked her over best he could without moving too much. Absolutely covered in small scrapes and dirty as all get out, but looked like she didn’t have any trouble standing. Saddle had been thrown off along with him and his things lay scattered about. Didn’t care if he’d get ribbed for it, he was not going to waste time collecting everything and getting the saddle back on when he had no idea where he was or if The Witch was still nearby.

Arthur got both arms around Calliope’s neck and she helped him stand. Had spots in his vision  _ before _ he tried moving; now he just leaned his head against her and tried to breathe them away. Left some blood on her coat, but it was raining hard enough it probably wouldn’t stick.

Arthur didn’t remember how he got himself on Calliope’s back. He only took a moment to look around at the terrain. Steep cliffs behind, steep path ahead but he thought he could see it levelling out. Looked like he was on the edge of Cumberland. Hopefully. Couldn’t see the tree that had fallen behind them in their mad dash.

Calliope started forward, tired of waiting for him to make the decision. Arthur let her. Had learned that when she knew where she was going, he needn’t worry about much.

Arthur realized the rope was still around his neck in a bow. Tried to untie it, yank it off. Moved about as much as iron cuffs. At least it didn’t get any tighter.

The rain turned to stinging sleet. Wind howled and tore through the trees. Calliope snorted.

Arthur felt eyes on them. Realized he didn’t have any guns, not even his sidearms. The Witch had taken his belt and his bandolier. Knife gone, too. Totally unarmed.

A wolf howled off to their right. Arthur urged Calliope into an all-out gallop. Was getting dark fast, mountain behind them covering up the sun fast as it set. Getting cold, too, and Arthur shivered in his soaked clothes. No hat, no jacket. No food, no weapons. He’d have to try pushing to camp tonight and pray The Witch didn’t find him.

Calliope huffed and dropped back into a trot, tossing her head, coming to a stop. “I know girl, I know. Not safe out here right now.” He nudged her sides.

Calliope did not budge. Her head arched up, ears flicked towards the mountain. Another rumble of thunder. A  _ long _ rumble of thunder. The rumble continued—the ground vibrated beneath them. Arthur looked to where Calliope’s ears had turned and his mouth dried out. 

_ Landslide _ . 

Arthur did something he had never wanted to do and slapped Calliope hard on the flank.

She jumped forward with a startled noise. Arthur did not to look behind them at the pile of mud and trees chasing them off the mountain, veered off the path and crashed through the trees, tried to find some high ground to scramble up. Felt rocks ping off his back and Calliope’s sides. She plunged  forward driven by her own fear and Arthur relinquished control to her.

There, a small hill, might be enough to get them out of the way. Arthur nudged Calliope towards it, but she was blinded by panic, now, and kept charging forward. Arthur looked around them, tried to pinpoint any kind of landmark.

His heart stuttered. He recognized— _ there was a cliff ahead _ .

He looked behind them at the landslide. Coming at them faster than an overflowing river. Looked ahead, could see where the grass stopped a few feet short of the cliff edge. Neither of them would survive that fall.

Calliope whinnied and skidded to a stop just a few inches from the lip of the cliff. Danced along it, snorting. Arthur watched the debris scream closer and closer, it would send them over the cliff and bury them so deep in mud no one would find their bodies and they would turn to fossils just like—

The mud surged over them. Cleared their heads by a few feet. Like it were sliding over glass. 

It didn’t last long, probably less than a minute. The impossibility of the situation made Arthur lose track of time again. The mud settled around them, a foot deep except for a ten foot wide area around them. Standing at the edge of the clearing was The Witch.

 

\- 0 - 0 - 0 -

 

Charles felt the rumbling as he was crouched over hoof prints sunk deep into the mud. Heard the trees crashing a minute later and recognized what it was. Swung up onto Taima and urged her towards the sound. 

He followed the ridge up high, needed to get a better vantage point and wanted to keep from being in front of the landslide. By the time he found where it had started, the world had gone quiet again save for the wolf whistle of the wind and the heavy pound of sleet against rock. He left Taima at the top of the ridge and skirted the area of the slide.

Charles crouched next to a large boulder that had been dislodged by the slide and took in the scene before him. There was Arthur and Calliope, right at the edge of the cliff, the immediate area around them free of mud. Even from so far away Charles could see a line of red down one side of Arthur’s face, looked like a nasty cut on his head. A petite figure stood just at the border of the clearing.Charles could see Arthur was unarmed, no gun belt in sight, Calliope without her saddle. Something glinted on his neck and his clothes were a mess.

The figure moved and Charles could finally see it was a woman, dressed all in black. Long dark hair unkempt, complexion somewhere between his own and Javier’s. Arthur backed up a step, pressed into Calliope who stamped her feet nervously. The woman raised her hand.

Arthur was yanked forward by his neck. Must be a rope around it, hadn’t looked like the woman grabbed it—how could someone her size pull Arthur to the ground?  _ He must be injured _ .

The woman slapped him. Charles heard it  over the wind and rain. Calliope reared, looked ready to charge.

Charles wouldn’t be able to explain what he saw next, and he wasn’t going to try, telling Dutch simply  _ Arthur’s been taken _ and leaving it at that.

The woman gestured at Calliope and the horse stilled, cowed, head to the ground and slowly walked up to her. Arthur still on his knees, the woman’s other hand fisted into the rope at his neck. Ropes sprung out of nowhere and wrapped around him, locking his arms in place at his sides. The woman released him and tied something over his eyes.

Then Arthur was lifted onto Calliope by unseen hands. Charles sucked in a loud breath. Caught completely off guard. More ropes appeared from nothing and tied Arthur onto Calliope. The woman whistled, and a leggy black horse pushed through the trees. She swung up onto it, whistled again, set off down the washed-out road towards the Heartlands.

Charles watched her go. Watched until he couldn’t see her anymore, heart thudding high in his chest. He was soaked through, now, starting to actually feel the cold. He quickly made his way back to Taima and wasted no time galloping back to camp.

 

\- 0 - 0 - 0 -

 

John itched to be off watch. Watch sucked, and today it was  _ raining _ . Cold and windy and raining and he was stuck posted against a tree. Could be scoping out a job but there were already “too many” people away from camp, according to Dutch.

Wished Arthur would hurry up and get back already. Charles had gone looking for him early that morning. Last time someone went out looking for Arthur, Bill found him over by Flatiron Lake, just  _ fishing _ . Arthur had come back with Bill, Calliope loaded down with game, and then they’d disappeared to rob a coach with Tilly. Didn’t seem to go well, based on the sour way Arthur looked at Bill when they got back. Arthur went right back out a few days after that, been gone ever since. That was, what, three days? Hardly the longest time they’d gone without seeing him. Probably got distracted  _ fishing _ again.

Loud hoofbeats pulled John from his musing. Couldn’t see more than ten feet down the path with all the mist and the rain.

“Who is it?”

The rider sped past John, splattering him with mud. John got a quick glimpse of a spotted rump as the horse continued to camp. 

_ Screw this _ . John left the camp gun leaned against the tree and jogged back to camp. “Charles? That you?”

Charles had already swung down from Taima, who was breathing  _ hard _ , ignored John and stalked straight over to Dutch’s tent where he and Hosea were having another of their discussions. John hurried to keep up.

“No Arthur this time, Charles?” Dutch had a cigar in one hand.

“He’s been taken.”

The mood between them sunk immediately. Dutch stubbed out the cigar and Hosea leaned closer. John finally caught up, stood next to Charles.

“The hell was that about, Charles?”

He was trying to hide it, but Charles was breathing almost as hard as Taima. “Arthur’s been taken.”

“Pinkertons?” Dutch interjected.

“No. Some. . . . woman.” Charles met Hosea’s eyes. “Looks like he’s he’s injured, or she drugged him. Didn’t put up much of a fight.” 

Dutch looked to Hosea, then to John, thought for a second. Then he addressed Charles. “You see where she took him?”

“Yeah.”

“Alright. Take John with you, bring our boy home.”

  
  
  
  


Charles was already on Taima and urging her out of camp when John came out of his tent with his guns. Had to sprint over to Old Boy and spur him after Charles.

“Charles! Wait up!”

Charles paused at the road that ran by camp, pointed towards the Heartlands. Rain had finally stopped but the clouds weren’t clearing.

“Said a  _ woman _ had him?”

“Yeah. Blindfolded and tied up. Didn’t look so great.”

“Well, shit, he’d have to be pretty bad off for a lady to get the jump on him.”

“Mhmm.” Charles urged Taima forward. Once they cleared the tracks, he kicked her into a gallop. Old Boy kept up easily. John regretted wishing for something exciting to happen.

They galloped between the high cliffs as the sun set behind them. Got dark real fast as Charles turned them west, towards the path that skirted the edges of Cumberland Forest. Slowed to a trot for a few hundred yards before indicting John stop. Guided the horses off the road into a small stand of trees, dismounted, pulled the shotgun from his saddle.

“Really think you need to use that on a woman?”

“You didn’t see what she did to Arthur.”

John didn’t press further. Slung a repeater over one shoulder and followed Charles’ crouched advance through the brush. Charles held a finger to his lips, _ quiet _ , and pointed into the small clearing ahead of them. Well hidden from the road, trees close on three sides with high scrub crowded between them. John could make out four horses just outside the light of the fire. Someone tall and pale moving between them, singing something. Too faint to understand what and John didn’t recognize the tone. Two figures near the fire, one laid on their side.  _ Arthur _ . 

The woman’s size shocked John. How could someone that small get Arthur? Must be hurt pretty bad for someone so  _ tiny _ to be able to tie him up like that. Maybe the fellow tending the horses was the muscle behind the operation.

“Sebastian, get him fed.”

The man appeared from between two horses. Well, man was an overstatement—looked more like a teenager, to John, long-limbed movements awkward and jerky and unpracticed. 

Charles prodded John’s shoulder.

“We go in on three. I’ll take the woman, you get the boy.”

“What, you want me to kill him?”

“No. And don’t kill her either.”

“The hell? Why not?”

“Stopped by the sheriff’s in Valentine for information. Found out she’s got a bounty. A high one. Must be why Arthur went after her. Bet something happened while he was riding.” Charles  _ knew _ it was more than that, knew John wasn’t as stupid as he let on, but also knew that what he’d seen wasn’t exactly in John’s wheelhouse to believe.

“How high is ‘high’?”

“$500. Wanted alive.”

“Well, shit,  _ fine _ .” John readied his gun. “On three.”

 

\- 0 - 0 - 0 -

 

No doubt he’d gone crazy, this time. On top of hallucinating, Arthur was sure he heard Charles or John whispering to him about rescuing him. 

Between the blindfold pressed into his eyes and the sizeable cut on his forehead and the concussion, well, he hardly had any idea which way was up and his head throbbed close to bursting. Could barely feel his fingers from how tight the ropes were. An uncomfortable sour feeling had started up in his gut. Stomach throbbed where The Witch had split him open, like a fist had dug into the old wound and was twisting his skin. 

Could hear Sebastian puttering about the horses singing his song. Made a weird feeling dance along Arthur’s back.

“Sebastian, get him fed.”

Arthur tensed as cold clumsy hands smacked into his shoulder and started to turn him over. They had a loose grip on him for all of a second before gunfire rang out. A dead weight landed right on Arthur, and The Witch  _ shrieked _ .

The cry was met by two others and the sounds of guns falling to the ground. Arthur wriggled beneath Sebastian’s body, tried to fling it off. Thought he felt sand shifting over him, falling into the cracks of his clothes, and then the weight was gone. Arthur rolled in what he thought was the direction of the other voices, the voices not belonging to The Witch.

Another shot. The Witch screamed again. Arthur felt when she hit the ground.

Hands on his back. He jerked.

“Easy Arthur, it’s John. You alright over there, Charles?”

“Fine.”

The ropes were cut free. Arthur’s hands flew to his face and he ripped the blindfold away and flung it toward the warmth of the fire. He began yanking at the ropes along his legs as John sawed them away with his knife.

“Easy there big guy, we’ve got you.”

All the fight left Arthur and he sagged forward. Damn head wouldn’t stop  _ throbbing _ . John caught him with a hand to the shoulder. Finished cutting away the rest of the ropes.

“You okay, Arthur?” Charles asked from where he stood above The Witch, gun pointed at her face. Her nose looked broken, blood covering the lower half of her face.

Arthur tried to speak but the rope around his neck burned, pulled tighter and all that came out was a dry gasp. The Witch giggled from her place on the ground.

John looked up at him with a frown, reached for his neck. “The hell is this?”

Arthur’s hands covered his where John grabbed the rope. It pulled tighter again. Arthur’s nails dug into the back of John’s hands.

“The hell did you do to him!”

The Witch cackled. Charles slammed the butt of his shotgun into the side of her head. “ _ Stop it _ .”

The rope went slack along with The Witch. Charles hit her head again for good measure. John slid his knife beneath it and cut it with some difficulty. Arthur heaved in great breaths once it was gone, a hand on John to steady himself. John looked at the rope with disgust and threw it away into the night.

“Arthur? Are you okay?”

Arthur could only nod, still trying to catch his breath. John saw blood under his nose. Both cheeks were bruised and swollen. Hair matted with dirt and blood on one side. Massive cut on his temple, wet with fresh blood. Shirt ruined. Smelled like he’d been dragged through a swamp and left in the sun all day to dry.

“You smell awful.”

Arthur coughed around a laugh. “And you’re still ugly as hell, Marston.”

John clapped Arthur gently on the back and helped him to his feet, caught him when he staggered.

“Tie that bitch up and let’s get the hell out of here.”

  
  


They spent some time unloading the mule and the draft horse before slapping them away into the wilds. No sign of the leggy horse Charles had seen the woman riding earlier. Arthur watched from Calliope’s back as Charles and John tied The Witch with their own ropes. Charles insisted on keeping her on Taima, in front of him so he could keep an eye on her. Arthur offered a vague story about how she was able to slip from the back of his horse and whack him over the head. John and Charles seemed too caught up in the moment to realize the headwound was fresh, or question where the draft and the mule came from, or ask who Sebastian was or why he suddenly didn’t exist anymore. They both seemed to forget he had even been there. Arthur wasn’t going to press it.

Arthur was leaned down on Calliope with both hands buried in her mane. Almost dozing. But whenever he closed his eyes, he saw . . .  _ things _ .

The ride back to Valentine was silent. Charles had shoved a bandana into The Witch’s mouth and tied it shut with another one. He made sure to ride in such a way that she couldn’t get any kind of view of Arthur. Had some suspicious but focused on getting her to the jail. John kept pace with Calliope. Had tried to convince Arthur to ride with him on Old Boy, not at all convinced Arthut could stay on a horse bareback with that kind of head injury, but Arthur insisted.

Damn near the middle of the night when they hitched at the sheriff’s office. John slung The Witch over his shoulder as Charles lowered her. Arthur hung back.

“You coming, Arthur? Your bounty, after all,” John called from the porch. The Witch had made no attempt to move or speak the whole way back. Made Arthur mighty uneasy.

“Yeah, yeah.”

Charles was right there, waiting to help him down. Arthur managed to slide off Calliope with only a small stumble, but Charles righted him anyways. Kept near enough to catch him should anything happen and Arthur realized his walk was weak and wobbly. Like a goddamn newborn colt. He put a hand on Charles’ shoulder to steady himself. World had stopped spinning but his head pounded in time with his heart and the cut on his head stung something fierce.

The sheriff took his feet off his desk when they came in. “Who do we have here?”

Arthur reached into his satchel and slapped the bounty poster on the desk. “The goddamn Witch of Roanoke Ridge.”

The sheriff picked up the poster and looked it over. “Yeah, we got one of these a few months back. Didn’t post it up since she was last seen all the way out in Lemoyne.” The sheriff stood, came around the desk and grabbed The Witch by the hair, lifted her face to get a good look at it. “Ain’t the first time you been a poster, huh Miss Aguilar? Quite a step up from robbery!” He let her head fall and indicated John place her in the cell.

“Ofelia Aguilar, first wanted for robbery what . . . two years back?” He dug around his desk for the bounty money. “Graduated to murder not too long after that. Don’t know about the whole witchcraft thing. They’re a bit superstitious out in Lemoyne, you ask me.”

The cell door rattled as John closed it. The Witch still had made no noise.

“Marshalls will be interested when they hear about this. Not often they put out a bounty that high for someone they want alive. Here’s your money.” He tossed the clip onto the edge of the desk. 

Charles grabbed it. Could feel Arthur start to shake harder against him.

A noise from the cell. All four men turned to face The Witch.

She’d come loose from the ties, spat out her gag. Blood stained her grin. Nose didn’t look broken anymore. Tiny hands wrapped around the bars.

The sheriff stood, an air of utter boredom around him, and sauntered up to the cell.

“Now, Miss Aguilar, no point making a fuss now you’re here. Don’t make me give the marshalls an unfavorable report.”

Her grin widened. Could count her teeth, practically. She raised one hand at Arthur.

Her lips moved. No sound. Everything around them seemed to freeze and go grey and murky, like looking at the sky from under old dishwater. Dark shapes swirled around her. Arthur felt his heart stop for an impossible moment and then he was on the ground, back burning and spasming. He didn’t hear the commotion of the sheriff going into the cell and wrestling Ofelia into iron shackles, or John and Charles calling his name, couldn’t hear anything over the mountains collapsing in his ears and the sun searing his eyeballs to black.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi y'all, I was working on this chapter and then I got a sudden infection in my jaw and had to go to urgent care, and I've been on some VERY strong drugs for the last few days (I'm doing much better, I was in an absurd amount of pain for 72 hours). I'll need oral surgery soon, so...that might put a bit of a bump into things. I'll do my best to have this story completed before that happens.

Valentine did not have a bustling nightlife, but a few drunken patrons exiting the saloon watched as two men burst from the sheriff’s office. The sheriff came out as well, calling after them, but they ignore him and went straight for the doctor’s door.

Charles held the still-shaking Arthur in his arms as John pounded on the locked door of the doctor’s office.

“Open up, goddammit!”

A light finally came on, and the doctor appeared in the door, angry. Yanked it open with a glare.

“Sir—”

“Doc, my friend, he. . . something’s wrong with him.” 

Charles shoved past them. The doctor pointed to the back room. Charles placed Arthur on the rickety cot; immediately he curled in on himself. Sweat mixed with dirt and blood tracked down his face and stained the sheets.

“What in God’s name happened to this man?”

“He was fine until a minute ago.”

John hovered awkwardly in the door. Charles remained at the foot of the cot as the doctor crouched by Arthur’s face, put his lamp on the bedside table.

“How did this happen?”

“We don’t know. He was working a bounty and came back like this.”

Arthur’s shaking stopped, suddenly, and his entire body went rigid. Face flush. Head wound bleeding as if it had happened right before them. More blood from his nose.

He was still. And for a second no one was sure he even breathed.

Then a gasp, like all the life surged back into him at once. Eyes opened halfway. Found Charles and John. Lips moved but no sound came out.

The doctor sat back on his heels for a moment. Turned to Charles and John.

“Either of you know anything about medicine?”

“No.” 

“A little.”

Charles looked over to John. Thought for a moment. “Why don’t you go tell Arthur’s father we found him.”

John nodded, numb. Useless like this. But he could ride a horse and he could fetch Hosea. The door shut quietly behind him and the doctor stood, rolled up his sleeves.

“Right. Let’s get his clothes off and see what we’re dealing with.”

  
  
  
  


They dealt with a lot. The head wound was the worst, had dirt and grit in it and bled something fierce as the doctor bathed it in an antiseptic wash. Stitched it up and wrapped a loose bandage around Arthur’s head to hold it in place. Not much to be done about the bruised, puffy cheeks. None of his teeth had been knocked loose and his nose wasn’t broken, not a clue what had made it bleed.

There was a single, odd burn on Arthur’s back that seemed to be bothering him the most. Looked like a hand, Charles thought, but didn’t say aloud in front of the doctor. Like a hand with words written spiraling down the fingers.

Charles said nothing, just dutifully handed the doctor whatever he asked for. Nothing seemed infected, yet, but the doctor gave Charles the supplies necessary to keep the wounds clean and said Arthur could rest there until he woke. He left as the sun came up, said something about trying to get a few hours of sleep before he got any more customers.

Charles sat in a chair next to the cot and stared at Arthur. The doctor didn’t want to put Arthur’s filthy shirt back on over the salves he had applied, so they’d stuffed him into the one spare shirt Charles kept in his saddlebag. Hung real loose on him but it was clean. Charles sat there as the sun rose and the town woke up around them.

Arthur groaned and rolled over the same time the door opened and closed an hour later.

“Charles? You still here?”

“Back here, Hosea.”

Hosea paused in the doorway, John hovering just behind him. The lines in Hosea’s face seemed deeper. John had  _ very _ dark bags under his eyes. Hosea sagged a little when he saw Arthur in the bed. Charles stood and offered the old man the chair. Hosea took one of Arthur’s hands in his own.

“How you manage to get into so much trouble in so few days will be a mystery for the ages, son.”

“Weren’t my fault this time,” Arthur grumbled, eyes coming open slow. Hosea smiled and pat his hand.

“I’m sure it wasn’t.”

Arthur pulled himself to sitting with just a little help, swung his legs off the cot. “The hell everything’s so  _ sore _ ,” he growled under his breath as he stood. Wobbly but he felt he could hold himself up this time. “This your shirt, Charles?”

“Your other one was ruined.”

Right. He’d ditched his saddle and everything in his bags. For some reason,  _ that _ was the one thing he didn’t want to have to tell Hosea. Again.

Took a step forward. Knees buckled. Charles caught him easily under the arms. Hosea stepped up as well. Arthur waved him off.

“Let’s just take it slow, son.”

“I’m not riding in the goddamn  _ wagon _ again.”

“Good, because I didn’t bring it.”

Arthur allowed Hosea to keep a hand on his elbow. They settled up with the doctor. Arthur almost felt like crying when he saw Calliope, hitched safe but anxious between Taima and Silver Dollar with a new saddle, identical to his old one. She whinnied when she saw him and a genuine smile crept across his face. She nosed into his hand; he realized he had no peppermints for her, but before he could apologize, Hosea stepped up with a few. Calliope greedily took them from his hand, bumped it expecting more. Arthur pushed her head back, pat her neck, and pulled himself into the saddle. Let the others ride in front and behind him, Hosea at his side. Arthur answered Hosea’s questions about what happened, but didn’t offer up any information on his own.

Once they got back to camp, Arthur wobbled over to his cot, kicked off his shoes, and slept for three days.

  
  


\- 0 - 0 - 0 -

 

A week later Arthur found himself back in town. Miss Grimshaw had taken pity on his sulking and sent him on an errand for some new thread. Arthur could tell she was reaching, just trying to find him  _ something _ to go into town for, get his sorry sad mug out of her sight for a few hours.

Arthur hitched up outside the saloon. Might as well draw out the trip as long as possible and get some drinks. A few men stood near the door deep in conversation, probably something about sheep or working girls, no one seemed to talk about much else in Valentine. They glanced over to Arthur as he climbed the stairs and he ignored them.

“Just the man I was hoping to see!”

Arthur paused, hand on the saloon door. Turned to see the sheriff.

“I do something wrong, mister?”

“No, of course not. Was hoping to see you, letter came from some federal agents about that bounty you brought in last week.” He started for the sheriff’s office, waved for Arthur to follow.

The cells were empty. Town seemed to be on good behavior lately.

The sheriff pulled open drawers, rooted around. “Haven’t had much excitement since you brought in Aguilar.”

Arthur hooked his thumbs into his gun belt, tried to release some of the tension from his shoulders.

“Ah, here it is.” He held out a thick envelope. Arthur accepted, easing the flap open.

“Why didn’t they leave it at the post office?”

The sheriff sunk into his chair, pulled out a cigar and lit it. Only answer was a nod at the envelope. Arthur slid the paper out— _ oh _ . There was a hundred dollars tucked into the folds of the paper. The letter had actually been typed out, but signed by hand at the bottom. On some fancy paper with an official seal in one corner. Arthur stuffed everything back into the envelope, thanked the sheriff, and beelined for the saloon.

He lost track of how many drinks he ordered, but he found himself alone at a table while the saloon filled up around him. The sun had gone down some time ago.

Tore open the envelope. Stuffed the money into his satchel and hunched over the letter.

  
  


_ To the man who captured Miss Ophelia Aguilar, also known as The Witch of Roanoke Ridge. _

 

_ My partner didn’t think I should bother thanking some bounty hunter from the nowhere backwoods who was just doing his job. I regret I couldn’t meet the man who finally got this bitch and survived to come out the other side. I have been with the marshal service for ten years now, and never known a single man to commit crimes half as heinous as this woman. Her posters do not do justice to the horrors we have seen in her wake. We’ve been trying to capture her going on five years now. _

 

_ The sheriff did not seem to remember your name. Thank you again, sir, for doing such a service for your country. A lot of families will get to see justice thanks to you. You’ve been paid your bounty, but please accept this gift to show my personal gratitude. No bounty seemed high enough for the things that woman has done. _

 

_ I would like to invite you to her public execution in Saint Denis next week, and maybe shake your hand. I will be at the gallows with the mayor. Aguilar will hang at sundown. _

 

_ Yours with gratitude, _

 

_ Marshal H.H. Devereaux _ .

 

Arthur folded the letter with shaking hands. Reached for his drink and realized it was empty. Stood to go order another one, but the shadow of someone landed on the table.

“Mind if I sit?”

Arthur made a sweeping gesture at the table and Charles eased silently into the chair. Set down another shot of whiskey in front of Arthur. Arthur drained it at once without thinking.

“Grimshaw was getting worried about you. Said she asked you to get some thread?”

“Something like that.”

“Does it usually take all day to get some spools of thread?”

Arthur shrugged. Held the letter out wordlessly. Charles made quick work of it, handed it back.

“Are you going?”

“Dunno.”

“I think you should.”

Arthur stood abruptly and went to the bar. Charles followed, leaned his back against the wood and scanned the room.

“Like I said before—”

“I don’t want to  _ talk _ , Charles, I want to drink.”

Charles turned around, watched Arthur pound back a few more shots before putting his hand over the fourth glass.

“C’mon, let’s go back to camp.”

Arthur growled, abandoned the whiskey, and stomped out to his horse. Taima was hitched right next to Calliope, the two horses nosing at each other like old friends. Arthur did not wait for Charles, but the other man caught up to him easily halfway down the street. Arthur decided to cut along the path near the stables, take his damn sweet time getting back to camp. Charles followed, silent.

Once the lights of Valentine disappeared behind the trees, Charles rode next to Arthur, close enough to reach out and grab him. Arthur kept his eyes somewhere between the saddlehorn and the one little braid at the base of Calliope’s neck. Chillier out than it had been the last few nights, gibbous moon bright within the dark ink between stars. Arthur took another side path, towards the sounds of the Dakota River.

Arthur stopped Calliope at the bottom of a narrow canyon, stared up at the sky as she drank. A long beat of silence passed between them.

“Something. . . .don’t feel right.”

“What do you mean?”

Arthur rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t.” Sighed, hard, frustrated. “Something ain’t  _ right _ . Don’t know what it is. Just feel. . .odd.” He watched the water of the river speed by. White caps carrying the odd stick or leaf downstream. “Been having a lot of. Dreams. Real weird ones.” Rolled his shoulders, rolled his neck, brought a hand up to massage at his back. “Something in my back don’t feel right either.”

Charles thought a while, wanted to choose his words well. “I think that woman did something to you, at the jail, when we brought her in.”

Arthur snorted.

“Besides the obvious. I got a look at your back when the doctor patched you up. He thought it was just a bruise, but. . . .” Charles waited for Arthur to look at him. “Looked a lot like words.”

Arthur nodded, like he had been expecting it to be something godawful and  _ weird _ , just like everything else that had happened around The Witch.

“Think it’s still there?”

Charles shrugged, pat Taima’s neck. “Only one way to be sure.”

They made camp within view of the river, got a tall bright fire going. Unsaddled the horses and dumped out some hay for them to graze. Arthur shivered as he slipped out of his shirt, let it fall around his waist. The fire at his back did little to warm him. Charles announced every move before he made it; Arthur barely felt his fingers brush the skin of his back that always felt freshly bruised.

“Well?”

“There might be something, but it’s faint. Just looks like a lot of bruises.”

Arthur twitched when Charles pressed into a spot too hard. Charles apologized, brought his other hand up to Arthur’s shoulder with a small squeeze.

“Looks like a rock fell on you. It goes from here,” Charles pressed high on Arthur’s shoulder blade, “to here,” ran a finger along Arthur’s lower back.

Arthur sighed and buttoned his shirt back up. Slipped into his vest and jacket and pulled it tight across his chest against the chill.

“It looks  _ fresh _ , shouldn’t look like that anymore.”

Arthur shrugged. Kicked a rock into the fire. Stretched out on his bedroll, faced away from Charles. “Best get some sleep, want to get back to camp early tomorrow.”

Charles watched the rise and fall of Arthur’s shallow breathing until it evened out, became deeper. Wrapped up the uneated half of the rabbit he had roasted for them and lay on his own roll.

 

\- 0 - 0 - 0 -

 

He was back at the top of Blackshear Butte, under that wide tree the black panther called its home. Arthur looked up into the branches being thrashed around by the wind and The Witch stared back at him. Not a stitch of clothing on her. Arthur tried to look away but his eyes were glued to the shimmering letters dancing across her skin, forming patterns he couldn’t read. Her mouth moved without sound. Her eyes glowed a deep marigold yellow.

Something dark and shapeless formed behind her, curled around the branches like mist. Shadows flickered within it; The Witch stood on her branch, arms outstretched. The mist slunk down, settled, formed up into—into—

A little girl stared back at Arthur. Framed by the wide trunk of the ancient tree, hands held behind her back, just the hint of a smile on her hazy face. Looking at her felt  _ wrong _ , wrong the way the creature was wrong, wrong the way The Witch had open him up and read his guts like the Sunday paper.  _ Wrong _ and it  _ hurt _ , hurt every inch of him to look at her.

She stepped forward.

Arthur tried to step back. Knocked into a cold unyielding  _ thing _ and fear galloped along his spine, through his hips and all the way down to bare toes curling in the rich wet dirt.

_ Don’t look don’t look don't look dontlook _ .

Fingers of ice grabbed his chin and slowly turned his head.

The lanky moon-pale creature stood flush against him. The voids of its face seared Arthur somewhere deep,  _ deep _ that he never liked to pull anything from, but this creature dug into that spot tucked behind his heart. The Witch cackled in her tree. The voids grew until they were the only thing Arthur could see, the only thing he knew, the only thing he had ever known. Another icy hand found the side of Arthur’s face, cradled it and Arthur knew there was a threat there. His head was tilted more towards the creature, bent over his back as if to kiss him, and the mouth opened, and opened, and opened, and  _ opened _ and Arthur knew,  _ knew _ this was how he was going to die.

His whole body jerked as he woke, like a bucket of cold water had been tossed over him. The same way he’d been waking up for the last week after having the exact same dream.

Clouds covered the sky, but he could see the first suggestion of dawn forming behind them. Calliope stood next to him, lips playing with his hair. He pat the side of her head, sat up, packed up his things and saddled her as quietly as he could. Charles still slept on his bedroll, facing away from Arthur, steady breaths reassuring. Taima whickered at Arthur as he led Calliope away from their little camp. Charles remained fast asleep. 

Once they were by the river, Arthur mounted and kicked Calliope into her steady canter.

  
  


\- 0 - 0 - 0 -

  
  
Charles had considered not sleeping at all, to catch Arthur before he could ride off on his own, but Charles himself hadn’t been sleeping well since rescuing Arthur. Charles’ own nightmare creature dogged his dreams, long pale limbs and gaping face chasing him across open plains. Always the same: Charles watching the buffalo from a rocky hill, picking out the best one, the fattest one with the cleanest hide. Planned on making a coat or a blanket for his mother, she never seemed to be warm enough. 

Then the sky would darken, and the creature would split a curtain of rain and bound after the frightened animals. Smacking them aside and sending them flying like dolls, black holes for eyes boring into Charles, mouth stretching to release a scream.

Charles almost always woke up before it could scream. He’d managed to this time, to wake up to a cold fire and a missing Arthur.

Charles wasted no time saddling Taima. Offered her an apple as he scanned the ground for Calliope’s hoof prints. He mounted once he spotted them, kept Taima at a slow trot as he stared at the ground. Looked like Arthur had crossed the river and continued down the opposite bank at a gallop. Probably wanted to get too much distance between the two of them; Calliope was damn fast, Charles knew, Taima was loyal and sturdy but she wouldn’t be able to catch the mustang in an all-out sprint.

The sun had trouble breaking through the clouds that had rolled in sometime during the night. At the bottom of the canyon, it looked more like dusk than early morning. Dew lingered on the plants near the river and it was as cold as when they had stopped for the night. Charles pulled his hair into a loose braid as Taima trotted along the river. Occasionally he leaned down to make sure he was still on the right trail, had to cross the river once more at the point where it widened as it left the canyon behind.

As the trees receded and the river widened Charles kicked Taima into a canter. There was only one set of fresh tracks to follow. Could catch up to Arthur in a few hours, with a little luck. Taima tossed her head as they raced across the covered bridge—they weren’t far from camp, and Charles felt a little bad that no one would know where either of them had gone to. Knew this was more important, though.

Charles slowed where the road dropped off again in a sharp slope towards the river. Spotted Arthur crouching next to Calliope as she drank.

“Did you really think you were going to lose me that easy?”

Arthur had heard the hooves approaching, half knew it could only be Charles this early in the morning. Arthur splashed another handful of water on his face. Shook off the excess and faced Charles.

“I told you, Arthur—”

“Got a long hard ride ahead, Charles, best get back to it.”

Calliope gave an annoyed huff as Arthur swung onto her back and pulled her head from the water, spurred her past Charles faster than was really necessary, kicked up a good cloud of dust. Charles ignored it and followed at the same fast pace, tried to get up next to Arthur to talk some sense into him, but Arthur just kicked Calliope forward. Charles fell back and Arthur slowed, so Charles just kept his mouth shut and stayed back.

 

\- 0 - 0 - 0 -

  
The sharp pounding of Arthur’s heart only increased the closer they got to Saint Denis. He kept throwing glances over his shoulder. Swore he saw that little girl out of the corner of his eye, didn’t matter what he was looking at. Once they passed the graveyard and started to round the corner, Arthur’s heart was skipping between his aching lungs. Knew he were breathing too fast but couldn’t do much about it.

A crowd, large enough to block some of the street, had gathered at the gallows. The sun was starting to dip behind the buildings, casting a fierce red glow about the square. Arthur’s eyes found The Witch easily. Wearing nothing but a simple dirty muslin gown, hair a bushy snarl framing her face. Hands and legs cuffed with iron, a short chain running between them forced her to stoop. She had a wide smile on her face. It showed teeth.

Arthur and Charles were forced to leave their horses on the other side of the street.

“C’mon,” and Charles was guiding Arthur forward with a hand on his shoulder. 

The mayor was making some sort of speech but Arthur heard nothing over his heart, his breathing, the ringing in his ears. Charles stopped them a few rows from the front and Arthur shuddered.

“And it is with sovereign authority that we sentence this witch to death. May her victims and their families find peace knowing she has a lasting place in the fires of Hell.”

The noose was lowered around The Witch’s neck. Her grin widened, impossibly wide, split her face and Arthur swore he saw little black shapes dancing out from between her teeth.

No one else seemed to notice. Charles gave Arthur’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze.

The executioner reached for the handle to drop the floor.

The Witch’s eyes found Arthur’s, without hesitation. Her mouth moved.

The platform fell. Her neck snapped. Something sharp twinged in Arthur’s back and his knees buckled, slammed into the dirt. People around him immediately turned to help, but Charles already had one of Arthur’s arms around his shoulders and was pulling him away from the crowd. Got him between Calliope and Taima, using the horses to shield them from prying eyes.

“Arthur, are you alright? Arthur. You need to slow your breathing.”

Arthur tried to move away, didn’t make it very far and vomited onto the sidewalk.

“Back’s on  _ fire _ ,” he managed through grit teeth, wiped the back of his hand over his mouth. 

Charles frowned, glanced around trying to spot anywhere that might be a little private. A few of the crowd were still watching them. 

“Here, this way.” Charles finally settled for a narrow space between a wall and a tall hedge, got Arthur sat on the ground. His legs shook the whole way down, face scrunched up, breath still coming in too fast.

“You really need to slow your breathing down.”

“ _ Can’t _ .”

“You have to try. Here.” Charles took one of Arthur’s hands, placed it on his own chest. “Breathe with me. Follow my movements. That’s it.”

Arthur squeezed his eyes shut and did his level best to match Charles’ breaths. His back was on  _ fire _ , caught beneath the sun without a shirt in high summer in the middle of the day. Every other part of him was freezing, threatening to lock up. He breathed through his hand, through Charles. The fire did not dissipate, much, but his lungs unfurled and reinflated and the cold seeped from his limbs, left him a sapling shaking in spring’s first storm. 

Charles released his hand, looked him  _ hard _ right in the eyes. “Better?”

“We need to leave.” Arthur pushed off the ground, useless, Charles had to pull him up the rest of the way and help him wobble to Calliope.

Arthur glanced back at the gallows. The Witch’s body had been lowered out of sight. A few lawmen lingered about. The mayor had left, and few of the crowd remained.

At the end of the gallows, in the looming shade cast by the buildings as the sun set, stood a faceless little girl, hands clasped behind her back, hair covering her face.

  
  
  
  
  


They rode from Saint Denis at a fast trot. The clouds had made it south, threatening rain that did nothing to abate the cloying heat of the swamps. Arthur’s clothes stuck to him the same as if he’d fallen in a river. Legs heavy on the saddle, back still burning. His head felt detached from his body. Swimming somewhere far above, not knowing where they were going or why he was here. Knew only that there was something waiting for him, somewhere, as dusk deepened to night.

A foreign bird made a noise somewhere in the dark and Arthur slammed back into himself.

Well, really, it was that he had fallen out of the saddle and landed face-first in the mud, but he came back to himself all the same.

Charles decided here was as good a place as any to camp for the night and dragged Arthur onto a patch of grass. Wiped the mud from his face while he still seemed a bit out of it, eyes focused on something far away.

Arthur sat on his bedroll staring at nothing as Charles got a fire going. Didn’t feel the warmth of it, couldn’t feel anything past the burning of his back and the cold stiffness everywhere else. Didn’t notice Charles leave and then come back with some exotic bird for them to eat. Charles kept his eyes on Arthur while he plucked and skinned and roasted the bird. Arthur stared at the fire, shadows on his face made more dramatic by the smears of mud that had dried there. The clouds had lowered to meet the fog wafting off the stagnant swamps. Made the world feel small and close and claustrophobic. No light from the moon but it wasn’t total darkness, just the eery flat-grey that happened in fogs, the smallest bit of light gobbled up and diffused to make the world seem directionless.

Charles startled Arthur when he leaned over to offer him some of the bird. Arthur waved it off, shaking his head.

“Does it still hurt?”

Arthur rolled his shoulders, winced.

“Let me take a look.”

Arthur didn’t fight. Didn’t have it in him, just let Charles unbutton his shirt and slide it from his shoulders.

“It’s. . . .”

Arthur was used to Charles being a man of few words, but rarely did he have  _ nothing _ to say. The swamp was alive around them—lightning bugs blinking in and out, the low hiss of a gator, something big splashing into the murky waters. A distant peal of thunder. A poorly maintained carriage rattled over the wooden path, not too far from them but completely obscured by fog. The humid air of the day pressed in around them, like always, but the long hours of night had started to cool it.

“What is it, Charles.”

“It’s. . . it looks like a handprint.” 

Arthur leaned away, towards the fire, maybe he’d feel it if he just got close enough—

Charles abruptly pulled him back.

“What are you doing, Arthur?!”

Arthur closed his eyes. “I don’t rightly know.” There was a tug, anchored in the flesh of his back, a tug pulling him _ where _ , he had no idea, but he felt the need to leave, to run, just run until he found a purpose. But his legs were bricks of ice, arms heavy, the only part of him that felt alive was his  _ goddamn back _ burning hotter than any fire but he needed to  _ runrunrun _ .

Arthur tipped onto his side. Sighed, eyes still closed.

“Arthur?”

“Just. Let me sleep.”

Charles pulled Arthur’s shirt back over him, buttoned it, draped the man’s jacket along his body. Whatever heat had followed them through the day seemed to disappear in an instant, the fire doing nothing to dispel it. Charles shivered.

A rustle, a splash, and the world stilled again. The fog pressed in tight. The light of the fire bounced off it, illuminated the immediate circle of their camp and blinded Charles to anything beyond it. Unease washed down his back. Sleep was an afterthought, now.

Charles sat opposite Arthur, the fire between them dying quickly. The damp fog squashed the flames down to embers in less than an hour, and Charles didn’t dare to find more fuel. Arthur shifted in his sleep, rolled onto his back.

  
  
  
  


He wasn’t at the Butte, this time. Wasn’t back at camp, either. Now, he was stood somewhere unfamiliar, the top of a waterfall with a stone bridge visible far, far,  _ far _ below. Farther than Brandywine Drop by twice, at least. The waterfall rushed beneath him, soundless, all the colors washed out from the world except for a speck of bright orange-yellow in the pool at the bottom of the falls. A black shape moved around the speck, probably the body attached to what had to be an eye.

Arthur turned in a slow circle on his flat rock in the middle of the lip of the waterfall. Dense forest to either side, lush and wet, ground crowded with ancient ferns. The overcast sky gave no indication what time of day it was, the same level of grey light permeating everything. Bright enough to see the little girl standing between two thin trees, hands holding something in front of her. Golden eyes visible through the curtain of her hair.

Arthur looked down at the pool but it wasn’t there anymore, he wasn’t at the top of a waterfall and there were no trees around him. Just a thick fog with vague shadows moving through it, far enough he couldn’t tell their shape or their size. He looked back to where the girl had been, and she was still there, still stood between two trees, closer. Could see the thing in her hand, an antler with letters stained and carved into it.

Cold spiked up his neck and Arthur spun around, got his hands up just in time to stop the black panther as it pounced for him. It got one of his arms in its mouth and  _ shook _ . 

With no landmarks, nothing but the same flat grey, Arthur lost his focus. The panther flung him and he rolled, rolled down a grassy hill and over the hard edge of a cliff.

Landed with a thud on the front porch of the house where he’d first found The Witch.

Arthur scrambled backwards, off the porch as the door opened. Warm candlelight cut a long rectangle through the dark. Arthur expected someone to be framed in the light, that’s how this always went, there was always someone standing there at the door waiting to invite him in to witness some fresh horror.

No one was there. Not when the door opened, at least. Shadows played over the candles. A few flickered and went out. The floorboards creaked under whatever moved within the house and Arthur found himself frozen in the dirt. Chest heaving. Sweat rolling down his back. Palms stinging where they caught on rocks and roots.

Long, bony white fingers curled around the door frame. Arthur’s heart thundered in his ears, rampant as wild horses. He bit his cheek to keep from screaming as the creature peered around the door frame gaping. No teeth, just a black mouth ready to swallow him whole.

The creature stepped forward, hunched. Arthur had too long to look at it, take in more details than he ever cared to see—the spikes raised along its back like a dog’s hackles, the way its knees bent backwards, the dark claws, the sunken chest and every rib and knob of bone.

The worst was the writing, though. As Arthur stared at it, it started to make sense. He knew what it said and he could read it  _ and he didn’t want to _ .

The creature took another step forward. Arthur heaved himself away from it. His shoulders brushed something, and he looked up, slowly, dreading it more than the creature he was sure would kill him.

The girl looked down at him. Eyes nothing but two holes. Mouth gashed into her face, black and endless.

Arthur looked back at the house. It and the creature were gone. He looked back to the girl.

The girl smiled. Her hair fell out, dress shedding like lizard skin as her body cracked and contorted and twisted tall above him and the girl was no longer a girl, but the creature—the same but different, a second one, oh god there were—

Arthur’s eyes flew open to Charles with a hand over his mouth.

“Don’t. Make. A sound,” Charles leaned close to whisper.

Charles removed his hand and Arthur slowly sat up. He didn’t remember there being this thick a fog when he’d passed out. He met Charles’ eyes.

They both felt it. Something watching them in the night, something more than the predators and the boars and the birds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey look a story that'll be longer than 5 chapters.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had some precious hours of clarity today through my multiple prescriptions for my stupid jaw infection and managed to finish the story. Enjoy!

Fog thick enough it clogged their lungs. The horses, stamping restless and anxious, shrieked in unison and bolted into the night. Arthur felt the thing hurtling towards him before he could see it, and he had just enough time to throw himself out of the way. 

Charles’ foot caught on the remains of their fire, and the creature pounced on him instead. Tore into him, ripped his shirt, and it wasn’t until Charles screamed that the ice trapping Arthur in place burst away.

Not thinking even a little, Arthur threw himself at the creature. It wrapped all its ungainly limbs around him as they rolled into the sludge of the swamp. Claws pierced Arthur’s clothes but he didn’t feel any pain, too focused on the voids staring back at him, the toothless mouth inches away from his own. Arthur wedged a hand between then for the sawed off at his hip.

The creature rolled them again. A gator snapped, too close. The gator’s hissing groan rumbled deep into Arthur’s chest. Felt the hot breath near his back. Arthur gripped the creature tighter, wrestled them away from the gator, he hoped; Arthur was not about to die to a goddamn  _ alligator _ . The creature hesitated and Arthur got the sawed off into its chest and pulled the trigger until it wouldn’t fire anymore.

It howled, ice picks driving through Arthur’s ears. Arthur’s scream vibrated his throat but he couldn’t hear it over the noise of the creature.

The shrieking stopped as another gunshot burst through the fog. Arthur rolled over to see Charles panting in a pool of his own blood, shotgun smoking. The creature stumbled back, a dark hole in its chest, kept stumbling out into the fog until they almost couldn’t see it. 

A gator rumbled, hissed, snapped its jaws and the creature went down, soundless. Arthur could hear the gator crunching into the creature, rolling it into the water where the gator had the advantage. A last shriek cut through the air for a second before there was a final splash, then silence.

The quiet lasted all of a minute before the sounds of the swamp trickled back to life. The fog thinned, just a bit, just enough to see the wooden path, the horses stood on the other side fidgeting and pulling at their reins.

Arthur came back to himself as his wounds throbbed. He ignored them and gracelessly flopped over to Charles, who had gone still. Arthur whistled, weak, and both horses trotted over.

“Charles, please—” Arthur rolled Charles out of the blood, tried to get a better look at him, but his shirt was dark and the blood was dark and there just wasn’t enough light to  _ see anything _ .

Arthur grabbed his coat, tied it tight around Charles’ torso, loaded him onto Calliope and mounted behind him. Held him against his chest and rushed the four of them out of the swamp as fast as he could manage. Over the bridge, up the road a ways the fog cleared and so did Arthur’s mind, by inches. Middle of the night and the nearest doctor was in Saint Denis, and you couldn’t get Arthur back into the swamp so soon if you held a gun to his head. He’d pick the bullet.

Moved the horses off the road, dismounted and got Charles to the ground as gently as he could. Arthur’s shirt was damp where Charles had bled through to it. The light of the moon was able to reach them, the fog clinging to the swamp like lather to an overworked horse. Arthur got his lantern lit and was finally able to get a sense of the wounds.

Deep claw marks stretched across Charles’ chest and back. Looked more like a bear had gotten to him than anything else. A few of them still bled freely, and Arthur was running out of time to make a decision. The wetness of his own wounds pulled at his mind, made him sluggish. Cauterization would be fastest, and it wasn’t exactly a delicate procedure, but Arthur didn’t think he could pull it off without burning Charles completely.

Charles jerked upwards, clung to Arthur’s shoulders with both hands. Eyes wide and wild, a few strands of hair stuck to a cut high on his cheek.

“Arthur—”

“Shhh, Charles, it’s okay, we got away from it.”

Charles looked around, head tilted and jerky the way a bird viewed the world.

“Arthur.”

“Charles.”

“Thank. Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet, still gotta patch you up and my stitches ain’t the neatest.”

Charles looked down at himself, dropped his hands from Arthur and pulled his shirt back to inspect his wounds.

“Oh,” and promptly lost consciousness again.

Arthur’s hands shook as he threaded the needle. He didn’t carry much thread on him, and he’d only have the strength to do up the worst of them. Would just have to tightly bandage the rest. Hadn’t even looked himself over, sure it weren’t pretty.

He worked through the final hours of night, finished tying off the last of the bandages scant hours after the sun rose. Charles swam in and out of awareness. Taima grazed nearby, ignored when Calliope pulled on her mane. Charles seemed to be coming back around again.

Arthur stood to stretch his legs. Tried to, at least, but they had fallen asleep as he crouched in the same position, and he crashed next to Charles. Charles groggily groped around for Arthur, smacked his face with the back of his hand.

“Arthur.”

Arthur groaned, face in the dirt. Charles smacked his face again, a little harder this time.

“Arthur, we can’t stay here.”

Arthur groaned louder, rolled himself onto his back, somehow. Looked over at Charles, pale and haggard and hair in a state of disarray Arthur had never seen, didn’t even know was possible. Arthur closed his eyes.

“ _ Arthur _ .”

“Alright goddammit.” Arthur rolled onto his back, felt Charles grab his elbows and help haul him to sitting. Both panting like they’d just run several miles.

“You’re hurt.”

Arthur looked down at himself. Blood on his sleeves, his pants, the front of his shirt.

“Lot of this is yours.”

Charles pointed at the various holes in Arthur’s clothing.

“Then what are those?”

Arthur got himself to his feet, not sure where the strength to do so came from, felt just as surprised as Charles looked. “Nothing to write home about. All this,” he gestured at the blood staining most of the front of his shirt, “is from  _ you _ .”

Charles sighed. Called Taima over. Arthur helped him into the saddle, swung up onto Calliope.

Arthur didn’t remember much after that, between the blinding light of day and the heat slowly building between his shoulders and searing a path up his head. Just focused on Charles before him, slumped forward in his saddle, kept a vague eye on the road and any threats around it. Didn’t notice the trees changing or the fading of the red dirt beneath the horse’s hooves. Paid no mind as the sun climbed higher and then started to set and the night cooled around them.

Certainly didn’t remember falling out of the saddle. Blinked up at his new view of the sky, quickly blocked by Calliope’s big head, and then Charles crouched over him a minute later. Charles looked as sweaty as Arthur felt. The cut on his cheek had bled again at some point, more blood soaked into the collar of his absolutely  _ destroyed _ shirt. Looked like the other wounds had bled, too, red spots visible on the bandages peeking through the fabric.

“You okay?” Arthur found himself asking, hand halfway to Charles’ chest. Charles caught his hands in his own, gave them a reassuring squeeze and placed them back on Arthur’s own chest. Heart roaring under his sternum.

Charles graced him with a smile. “I should be asking you that.” Offered his hands to Arthur to haul him back to his feet. “We’re not far from camp, we should keep going.”

They both staggered but managed to get Arthur onto Calliope. The sun had set some time ago; enough of Arthur’s brain still worked to recognize the ride back was taking a lot longer than it should. The air dried fresh blood against Arthur’s skin and he looked down at the holes dotted along his clothes. Had his jeans always been ripped like that? With the long gash across his knee? 

When had the world gotten so fuzzy?

Calliope wickered beneath him. Swung her head around to look at him, stopped walking. Trees swayed to their left, empty train track to their right. Arthur knew. . . knew he should recognize where they were. . . .

Charles stopped next to him, their legs almost touching. “Arthur?”

When had Charles gotten so close? Pressed up against him, no way their horses could be comfortable stood so close—

“Arthur.” Charles had a hand on his forehead, frowned a second later. Charles nudged Taima forward and Calliope easily kept pace. He rode past whoever called out to them from the bushes, urged the horses into the circle of light from the main campfire. Startled the few people left sitting there. Arthur started to fall from his saddle, caught at the last second between Javier and Hosea. Camp sprang back to life as they eased him onto the ground and Charles found himself guided by Abigail to the chair by the fire Hosea normally sat in. Miss Grimshaw had already descended on Arthur.

Too tired to do anything about it, the pain came crashing back to Charles. Gave him a few moments to see Arthur, stripped and bloody on his cot, before spots clouded Charles’ vision and he lost himself.

 

\- 0 - 0 - 0 -

 

He wasn’t out for long, he didn’t think, but he had been moved to a bedroll and someone was leaned over him, checking his wounds.

“Ah, welcome back, Mr. Smith.” Miss Grimshaw finished off a stitch, rethreaded her needle and moved on to the next wound.

“How’s Arthur?”

“Not nearly as torn up as you, but infection set in. What happened to you boys?”

Charles wanted to sit up, he really did. Felt like he tried, but his back didn’t want to work, muscles twitching beneath the neat stitches that had already been done while he was out.

“Panther. Near the swamps.”

Miss Grimshaw  _ tsk _ ed, shaking her head. “Again? What were you boys even doing down there. No, nevermind, it doesn’t matter. You need to be more careful.” She tied off another stitch, snipped the line, rethreaded again. Charles lost track of how many she’d put in. The woman worked impossibly fast, or he no longer had any concept of time. The sky was dark and the stars were out and that was about all he could make sense of. “Good thing I didn’t actually need that thread, seeing as Arthur never came back with it  _ two days ago _ .”

Charles’ eyes drifted over to Arthur’s tent, but all he could see was low lamplight and a few shadows cast against the canvas. Likely Hosea, at least; Charles didn’t see him around camp, and Dutch’s tent was open and empty.

“There we are. Might be a new record. Here, sit up now so we can get you bandaged and properly to bed.” She got him sitting easily and Charles allowed himself to be wrapped and handled and dressed again in an unfamiliar shirt that smelled like horses and woodsmoke. He wanted to see Arthur, but Charles had about as much strength as he did earlier in the day, which had barely been enough to keep him on Taima.

Miss Grimshaw lowered him back to the bedroll, pulled a blanket up his chest. “You just rest now, Mr. Smith.”

Charles was asleep before Miss Grimshaw even stepped away.

  
  
  
  


Arthur had acted a petulant child as Hosea and Susan worked his clothes off him, trying to just find out where all the damn blood came from. Dutch stayed up by Arthur’s head, held his shoulders steady and talked to distract him. Hosea was just about ready to ask John to sit on Arthur’s feet to keep him still, but the fussing and flailing finally wore him unconscious.

The wounds weren’t too bad, all things considered. Blood must have come from Charles, at some point. They still hadn’t gotten the full story about what happened on his bounty hunt—hadn’t gotten the full story after any of Arthur’s recent misadventures. Hosea doubted it would be any different this time, but he also was unwilling to just let it slide. He’d give Arthur time to heal but he  _ was _ going to pester him until the truth came out. 

Punctures dotted Arthur’s arms and legs, front and back. Single long cut just above his knee. Susan remarked how odd the wounds looked, almost like bullet holes but without the bruising and swelling and gaping exit wounds.

“We’ll have to ask him when he wakes up.” Susan spread more salve over the last of the wounds on Arthur’s thigh.

“What good it’ll do, he hasn’t exactly been. . .  _ chatty _ about these sorts of things.” Hosea frowned at Arthur’s slack face, shining with fever sweat. Hotter than the main fire. Hosea hadn’t seen an infection this nasty set in so quick—Arthur and Charles had barely been gone two days, for chrissake. He held Arthur’s leg as Susan wound the bandage around it, tied it off and went to fill a bowl of cool water.

Dutch cleared his throat, sighed. Hosea looked up at him, matched the sullen expression there.

“I’ll sit with him, Hosea.”

Hosea nodded. Took the water and the cloth from Susan as she hurried back into the tent.  He and Dutch had had several long conversations, late into the night, about what Arthur seemed to be putting himself through lately. Supposed they could just start the conversation all over again with this newest mess. Hosea was starting to lose sleep over it, with the worrying; he worried every time Arthur left camp, worried every time Arthur was gone a little longer than anticipated, worried when Arthur went down to the damn river just to fish. Was going to worry himself into an early grave if something didn’t let up soon.

Dutch wrung out the cloth, laid it ever-so-gently on along Arthur’s forehead. “Get some sleep, Hosea.”

 

\- 0 - 0 - 0 -

 

A single beam of sunlight lanced across his face. Hit him right in the eye, heated him enough that he woke, hand moving to cover his squinting face.

Arthur blinked the sleep from his eyes and looked around without sitting up. All the flaps of his tent were down, but he could hear the usual noises of camp. Maybe a little more subdued, but he picked out Pearson scraping things into the stewpot, Karen and Mary-Beth having a low conversation, Jack exclaiming about something to Abigail. Swanson walking around, singing, drunk. Weren’t very late in the day, the sun bright and clear above the treetops. Near noon, or sometime after.

He expected someone to be waiting by his cot. Always was, when he fumbled his way back into camp like this, but the chair by his table was empty. One of Dutch’s precious Evelyn Miller books was on the seat.

Arthur sat with an ease that didn’t make sense for how beat up he’d been. Bandages shifted along his arms from wrist to elbow, knee to hip on one leg, just the calf on the other. He reached for his back, tried to feel the space where fire had danced across his skin. Thought he felt ridges where there shouldn’t be any, but a hand pushed through his tent and Dutch entered with a steaming mug of coffee and a relieved smile. Set the mug down, shoved the book onto the table and pulled the chair closer to Arthur, hand on a shoulder to steady him. Arthur tried not to flinch when it brushed what he knew had to be a handprint—how could Dutch not see it?

“Good to see you up, son. Gave us quite the scare.”

Arthur scrubbed a hand over his face again. Lot more beard there, several days worth.

“How long was I out?”

“Four, five days.” Dutch stood, poked his head out of the tent and hollered for Miss Grimshaw and a bowl of stew. “In and out of it with fever, didn’t break ‘til last night.” Dutch squeezed Arthur’s shoulder and his smile crinkled the corners of his eyes. “Charles told us about the panther.”

Arthur just nodded. Glad he didn’t have to come up with another story.

“What did you do to earn the wrath of those creatures?”

Arthur chuckled, shook his head. “Don’t rightly know, Dutch. Just unlucky, I guess.”

Miss Grimshaw swept into the tent with an armload of medical supplies, Hosea behind her with a fresh bowl of stew.

“Mr. Morgan. Glad to see you’re awake.”

“I didn’t get your thread, Miss Grimshaw, I do apologize.”

She set the supplies down on the table, offered a small laugh and a smile. “You owe me now, Mr. Morgan.”

“I’ll go into town first thing.”

“Oh, nonsense, you’re not going anywhere.” She shooed Dutch away from the cot, took his spot on the chair. “We’re just going to look you over real quick, get some food in you, and then you can go back to resting.”

“Think I been resting long enough, Miss Grimshaw.” The end of her name got caught up in a yawn Arthur failed to stifle. Miss Grimshaw just pat his knee and went to work unwinding the bandages. Hosea settled on the edge of the cot, concern etched deep into the lines around his mouth.

“Really had us worried there, Arthur.”

“How’s Charles? He was tore up something nasty.”

“Charles is fine. Managed to avoid rubbing dirt into his wounds, like you must have done. What were you even doing out there?”

Arthur could feel Hosea’s eyes bore into him. Arthur kept his eyes down, watching Miss Grimshaw unwind the bandages and scrub the dried salve from around the wounds. They’d sealed nicely, still as big around as his fingers, but definitely looked to be on the mend.

“Hunting.”

“Seems more like you were the ones who got hunted.”

“Bad luck, I suppose.”

Hosea hummed, unconvinced. “Bad luck indeed.”

Arthur knew he’d be getting another talking to. If not from Hosea, certainly from Dutch. He couldn’t keep going off like this and coming back completely useless, and he’d even dragged Charles into his mess this time.

Miss Grimshaw pressed into the bruise around a particularly deep puncture, pulled Arthur from his thoughts with a wince.

“Sorry, Mr. Morgan. That one was the worst, but it’s looking much better now. I’ll just bandage these up—”

“I’ll do it, Susan, why don’t you see to Charles? He was still asleep last I saw him, pretty sure he hasn’t eaten since last night.”

“Alright. Be well, Mr. Morgan.”

“Thank you, Miss Grimshaw.”

Arthur didn’t meet Hosea’s eyes as he took Miss Grimshaw’s seat, offered Arthur the bowl of stew. Arthur’s hands shook from the weight of it, but he managed a few spoonfuls before his stomach cramped. Hosea took the bowl back with a sad smile.

“Best to take it slow, you weren’t able to keep anything down when we tried to feed you.”

Arthur was  _ exhausted _ . Keeping upright sapped any strength he felt upon waking. Hosea leaned him back onto the cot as he set about bandaging everything back up. Fewer layers this time, not spread so far.

“Was it really a panther?”

“That’s what I said, weren’t it?”

Hosea sighed. “It’s just that, the wounds are a bit  _ strange _ , is all.”

“They’re from its teeth.”

“Uh-huh, bit you and clawed Charles. Never heard of a panther to use all teeth and no claws, or all claws and no teeth.”

“Was an odd panther. Those swamps are an odd place.”

“Arthur, son, look at me.”

Arthur did so, reluctantly.

“I know you’ve been having dreams. Something. Something  _ happened _ to you at Blackshear, didn’t it? What did you see, Arthur?”

Arthur swallowed, looked away, eyes catching on his photographs and the wagon and the shirt spilling from his clothes trunk. Finally met Hosea’s eyes again.

“You wouldn’t believe me, Hosea, it weren’t something  _ possible _ .”

“I’ve seen quite a few impossible things in my years.”

“Not like this you haven’t.”

Hosea paused, worried his lip. “Try me.”

  
Arthur felt sick and shaky by the end of it. Recounting what he’d seen on the steppes of the Butte, reliving it near as fresh as the day it happened. Hosea sat quietly through it all, stayed in the chair as the sun sank lower and sunset slanted through the trees to dapple the canvas of the tent. Arthur only paused to drink the water Hosea insisted on, continued to explain the dreams, the terrors, the wan rangy thing that followed him everywhere he closed his eyes. He left out how Charles had guessed at the creature almost immediately, figured that weren’t his thing to tell.

Gave Hosea all the details of the bounty hunt gone wrong, even the part where The Witch dug him open with her fingers and read his guts clear as printed type. Hosea blanched, throat working like he was about ready to throw up, but insisted Arthur continue. That brought them to the last two days, the letter, the public execution, and the attack in the swamp.

“Is it. Is it dead?”

“I hope so. Loaded it with buckshot. Charles got it, too. Sounded like a gator carried it off. If that didn’t kill it, I dunno what  _ could _ .”

“Well.” Hosea swallowed. “Well. I’m glad the both of you are okay.” He stood, left the stew and a full canteen on the chair within Arthur’s reach. “I should let you rest.”

“Hosea?”

He stopped, one hand curled around the open flap of the tent.

“Don’t. Please don’t tell Dutch. About the thing.”

“I won’t, Arthur. You just rest now.”

  
  
  
  


Arthur stared at the ceiling and waited for sleep to find him. Listened to camp eat dinner and get drunk. Tilly was shamelessly beating Kieren and Sean at dominoes, Sean rambling on about something do with his Da. Bill telling another of his  _ in my time in the Army _ stories, loud and drunk, Arthur couldn’t see who he was holding hostage this time. Probably not any of the women, none of them had the patience for Drunk Bill the Storyteller anymore. Swanson, most likely, maybe Lenny if the kid had been drinking as well. Young and dumb and too nice for his own good.

Arthur breathed out harsh through his nose. Took his time getting out of his cot, didn’t want anyone chastising him for trying to do too much. He was weak and wobbly but there was a nagging alertness at the back of his skull, nestled just at the top of his neck and tingling down his spine. The heavy weight of fatigue dragged at his limbs but he ignored it, mind too awake now for sleep.

Several folk called out to him when he emerged from his tent. He waved them off, assured them he was feeling much better with a tiny smile. Shuffled over to the fire where Bill, Lenny, and a passed out Uncle were gathered. Lenny was well on his way to falling asleep on the log, eyes half-lidded and sluggish.

“Arthur! Welcome back.” Lenny clapped him on the shoulder. “Late to the party, but—”

“Aw leave him alone, kid,” Bill slurred. He had a bottle of whiskey by the neck, a flush high on his cheeks and his shirt hanging open and untucked.

Arthur’s smile stayed in place. “You are  _ drunk _ , Mr. Williamson.”

“Screw you, Morgan.” Bill lurched to his feet, stumbled off into the bushes to take a piss, muttering the whole way. Uncle slept on.

“It’s late, Lenny.”

“But you just got here!”

“And I’ll be here tomorrow. You go on now.”

Lenny threw a arm around Arthur’s shoulders, tried to give him some kind of hug but just fell off the log and rolled towards the fire. Arthur caught him by the back of his shirt with an ill-concealed laugh.

“Yeah, Mr. Summers, think it’s time for bed.” Arthur thought back to their drunken adventure in Valentine what felt like forever ago. Some small warmth sprouted in his chest as Lenny gave him a toothy grin from the dirt, saluted Arthur and stumbled off to his bedroll. Arthur sat back on the log, shoved an extra fur under his ass and stared at the fire. Watched the yellow and gold flames eat up the wood, swallow it whole, turn the brown into glowing red embers. People drifted in and out of his peripheral with well wishes as they settled down for the night. There was a loud exclamation from Sean and the tinkle of domino tiles hitting each other, Tilly’s bright laugh following a second later. Arthur sank into the comfort of the routine, of the rest of the gang being untroubled. As untroubled as a group of outlaws could be. Arthur would gladly be attacked by that creature again so long as it meant his family was safe.

Mired in the flames and his thoughts, Arthur didn’t hear someone approach the fire, didn’t notice until Charles was seated next to him, hands held out to the fire to warm them.

“Thought you would be asleep. You had a few rough days.”

Arthur stared at the flames, saw yellow eyes between two cracked logs. One of them split, collapsed onto the other, buried the eyes and Arthur felt the heat of the fire again. “I told Hosea.”

Charles was silent next to him. Idly tossed some twigs towards the fire. A drawn-out moment languished between them. Animals scratched through the woods outside camp. An owl hooted.

“You have to burn it.”

“Burn it?”

Charles dug in his pockets. Everyone else had gone to bed long ago, except Dutch and Hosea discussing something in Dutch’s tent. Must not be a full plan yet if they hadn’t bothered grabbing Arthur.

Charles handed Arthur a folded piece of paper.

“There’s a reservation north of here. I spoke with the elders there.”

“They let you leave camp scratched to all hell and back like that?”

Charles smiled. “As if they could stop me. I was there and back before anyone noticed I was gone.” Charles tapped the paper. “Take a look.”

The paper held a simple likeness of the creatures plaguing them both. Charles’ tidy handwriting next to it with notes.

“You figured out what it is?”

Charles tapped the paper again. “Wendigo. The manifestations we’ve encountered are unusual, but the elders were certain. The only way to keep it dead is by fire.”

“ _ Keep _ it dead?”

Charles folded the paper, tucked it away. “It didn’t die in the swamp.”

“Shotguns and a goddamn gator weren’t enough to kill it?”

Charles simply nodded. Arthur sighed, lit a cigarette, offered one to Charles. The two sat there smoking silently through a second cigarette. Dutch and Hosea had finally turned in as well, leaving Arthur and Charles and whoever was on watch the only people awake. Arthur tossed the remains of his cigarette into the fire, stood and stretched and popped his back.

“Guess we’ve got some hunting to do, huh Charles?”


End file.
